Monthly Archives: September 2014

Letter From The Green Smog

What was 2010? How long ago did it spin? And how did such a thing come to pass?

I demand as many explanations as anyone can reasonably offer!

My mind has rare occasion, occasionally, to return to this unpublished note of imperfection to wonder what it is. It is, by appearance, a letter written by The Hare, to the mysterious Doctor Zi, PXB. See if it holds any interest at all, before we all might return to the very now to accidentally drop our new i smartphones in unison.

The Cabinet of Dr. PXB



Announcements of Subjective Importance (x2)

Peter And The Hare on

From: Earth
To: Earth
Subject: The World
CC: Christopher Columbus

lettr from earth

Peter And The Hare deliver notes to the world on a new website called Lettrs. Peter is finding it a good complimentary outlet for his more spontaneous attempts at whatever he’s attempting. The platform means that he can enjoy many different types of paper without harassing the stationer, and he has made friends there who are not all rabbits.

“Bertuch-Vegetable-Lamb” by Friedrich Johann Justin Bertuch (1747-1822) – File:Bertuch-fabelwesen.JPG. Licensed under Public domain via Wikimedia Commons –

“Better Late Than Lately Never!”

“Peter And The Hare’s Fireside Companion” E-book On Google Play Book Store


An E-book Edition of my first illustrated collection of poems and stories, Peter And The Hare’s Fireside Companion, is now available to read on PC and any tablet or smartphone device that can access the Google Play store. It’s a sweetly-priced way of acquiring The Hare’s first conjuring trick. Click the link above  to read a generous sample of the book for free and marvel at how awesomely-quite-cool it could be to support a stranger’s strange art and poetry. Reviews are also welcome.

happy accordion player

Going Rick and Ilsa

“I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you’ll understand that.”

– Rick, Casablanca, 1942

See – I wear a raincoat to avoid my own drenching.
I’m not a good man
but there’s still
a feather for the candle’s licking flame,
a dabbing motion of acrylic,
loaded on the bough of a brush,
to give light to an eye.

But inside the mountain,
as cold as mythical igloos,
the scorched skin of hypothermia goes about
losing toes;
severed beans,
gone Arctic.

Our minds are now in Paris,
singing with ex-pats,
sharing gin,
going Rick and Ilsa,

(What would Rick and Ilsa be
to a friendless Café-dwelling poet
trying too hard, spineless and rude,
who couldn’t mind his own damn business?)

Watch me try to amount to a hill of beans,
and while there is space left between the beats of pulses,
you and I are learning
every time the gardener’s song
trails off…

into a question…

“What would be kinder
for the sun to look upon,
in these times:
the quicksand of the mind,
the war, and wars ahead,
a runway,
or, perhaps, the Seine?”

Write your Answer:


Because we’ll
save this aimless feature
of landscape in a photograph;
carefully framed, because
each one has lungs, the same size as their bodies
and can’t hold their breaths for long
before boiling.

They are beans.

Watch me become a hill of beans,
it’s been a long time, I grant you.
But freight trains are exporting
confusing cargo,
bean by bean.

The mountain and the sky aloft
and the yellow-bellied peas,
the scream that extinguishes a stove
and miles below sea,
the gasping hill of beans,
that ask to be kept
prickly in your scarf,
elevated on a slice of toast,

warm and dry
for your kindness.

Alphabet soup spells trouble to a witch,
who had dreams, and woke with a pearl-string of her beads
around her neck, the imagination
she goes to bed with
only loose fitting clothing,
and shoes filled by a radiator leak.

Because she
sorts randomly canned letters
into prophecy.

On our camping-trip,
in our twenties,
we had the shadow of an elephant
amounting to
what we hoped would be a molehill.

Watch me hope for a hill of beans,
without which I’d be the proprietor of a bar,
I’d be in black,
in white,
seeing like a dog,
identifying each passing trope of Film Noir.

With a friendly tongue
but teeth in a jar,
in gin-smoked interiors
before you chanced into mine.

I sat against white walls,
poured liquor into breakfasts.
I knew you would
remember laughing at time slowed by
like a mosquito, a bar fly, does
before being swatted.

Since you’re here we could spend time counting
any beans left,
between the currency of kisses.

It’s something we hope everyone can afford,
even though we know that’s not true,

Hope, for a hill of beans.

Watch me give desperate hope to those who scratch for it, what remains
of a miserly measure,
which is at best a lens to watch
rocks beat against the tide,
for once,
for once, Ilsa,
but they, we, can’t.

And those who know it,
live on black-and-white film stock,
with street-smarts,
twin-prop airplanes
and the song Sam plays
for himself.