Kathaman's rich mix of heat and heart seems about right for our pre-monsoon city scapes, campgrounds, roasting and resting chaotic summer. Is there one word for feeling a society on the precipice? Enjoy these poems that read like abstract paintings.
Western evenings question people
in measured, peered time in spots
of grass with brown summer.
Skeletons of angels travel where
Streams stand like granite.
Trout wake up at night.
Heat curves over these gifts
speeding for a place in the sand.
The life of dogs end in the pound.
We arrive at the arroyo and pin
our seasonal senses to the rain.
Entranced with the green sea
looking for the sound of the surf
where life became sexy and
learned to crawl.
The song of culture mentioned in
Paradise tastes of a tablespoonful
The top of the sky repeats itself
saying to the dawn of pink and
gold: never leave the faith of
the glass canyon.
* * * *
The pebbles of architecture
A repeated electric jazz riff that continues like a dental drill.
I will not write about the weather.
A funny male person whose mouth shakes full of small fears.
Who holds his own unconcerned about being the last of his line.
I tell him his genetic code will adhere to the electromagnetism in the air.
Notice your outside love or artistic thoughts hazily composing themselves out of nothing. Go flavor the poor and lost in the endless sea of nature. Women of the wet lands in the shadows of the sea. The color of cream is pitiless. I’m stalling while I rub the crust from both inner callouses. A scoop of news beyond common sense. Trapped to the sight from where we tell our failures. Heads will swell as watermelons. The height of pigs on nuts will increase. Dark eyes of the Pharaoh are not to be looked upon. Down the canyon of eyes, lenses point to ourselves. I am unable to embrace his sense of normalcy.
We eat perch and focus on its profile.
Maybe we misheard the list of symptoms the cardiologist
left next to the medicines.
Everyone comes from an oyster.
Aging spirals on the wind from Mars.
Unseen secrets of living music on broadband.
Back in my skin I climb the narrows of a winter scape.
* * * *
Bananas and Garlands
Stones to measure
Stones from the surf
Stones of the valley floor
Taro grows wild near the
sleeping cave. I hum hymns
to my riding horse. We enter
the heart of the secret trail
into stories beyond reason
and clouds of sandalwood
of 19th century grandmothers
and kalua papas.
12 spectators with garlands
and goats fold into the core
of the lianas. Bananas and
peaches roll into laps of
peasants. This is their
* * * *
The eyes of the puppet
wake-up to a turquoise
green silence. Another
uniform month of forgotten
harmonies lost in lands
of towers, bridges and
balconies. The tendrils
walk on the inside to
scatter my existence
beyond 10 sacred
minutes. I have never
forgotten when I met the
moon delight. My ears
hang low in the enclosed
dirt under lock and key.
For samples Kathaman's visual art, go to
For submission guidelines, see previous pots' instructions.