Post-Beat virtuoso Dan Raphael, his poems “able to swing out in any direction,” bare souled like a later day Corso, he, too, with mad mouthfuls of language, offers these pages brimming with wonder about such things as “freeways made of pasta, poisoned rivers / diluted enough to give you a buzz.” Raphael knows “only music is more attractive than words” and fills his pages with symphonies of word music drawn from the far reaches of the universe by way of the street running past his house, even as he remains all too aware that “some things / you don’t want delivered to your home.” Come joyride with this un-cautious bard, brilliant and blessed with shamanistic pathologies, his ravenous soul pointing yours toward a light somewhere past polite, agreed upon wavelengths. This book may be Starting Small, but it waltzes with glory in the great, vast world native to our secret hearts.
-Jeff Weddle
One Foot in Front of
My right foot breaks something
My left foot gets sticky
I don’t duck i hit my head
I duck and i don’t see something
I can sit at a T intersection for minutes
Unable to keep going straight
Or get a coin out of my pocket to flip
When i don’t want to use either hand
Or both reach out and get in the way
Sometimes i think i’m standing in the middle
But take one step and find the edge
A time to be paralyzed through dispersion
A time to lash out uncontrollably
Months of several prescriptions
Starts with a Breath
Starts with a breath
inadvertent sound, constant city sound
if all the cars stopped you could hear the houses
& buildings so close together they sway and rub,
almost touching, aching to feel cause they have no eyes
As all my windows could be monitors
my roof keeps out the rain but not the waves, rays,
signals, neutrinos, most unsourced, spontaneous, directional
choices from an ever-changing menu of uncertainties,
never-tasted-befores, evolving on impact
My pico-thin vocal range
what i see without correction
how many things am i hearing at any moment—
only music is more attractive than words
all conversation is a capella, though we’re never without percussion
breath looking for the narrowest, loosely walled gap
to run through with all its thousand tendrils spread wide
like striking a match for music, not flame
People Get Ready
Down the road, a network,
veins on the back of an 80 year old hand
street of compressed mayan alphabets.
How the wind views traffic, crowds
why it always rains the first saturday of june
has nothing to do with the parade held then
the key i turn to start my car doesn’t have to be a key
transferring electricity when i snap my robot fingers
My studio with murphy bed, built in chests,
a table rising from the floor, kitchen sink converts to shower
windowless with glowing walls means i could be underground,
it could be night—how would i know, my clock
could be anywhere in the world or above it,
my lunch could be interrupted by someone
demanding a 2AM dream
Bed like a xerox machine, bed like a toaster,
a floodplain, a topographical map used as a musical score,
2 biceps of lava, footprint filled with beans cheese & peppers
The car across the schoolyard looks small enough to fit in my hand
i’m not overweight—those are speed bumps, albino asphalt
not a speed limit but how much can i carry how far
i took a bag of groceries to safeway but they wouldn’t pay me
i put my Leaf up on blocks & plugged my house into it
Falling fast
Pedestrians crossing in the middle of the block
big pickup bullying his way into my subcompact’s right of
construction delays popping up faster than fall mushrooms
3rd shirt of the day, 3rd shot in the 3rd bar
more clouds in my head than the sky
When i feel comfortable enough to talk politics it’s time to leave
sunless sky confusing my compass, 2 crows almost collide
either i walked here or my car was stolen
how could i know the bus was a food truck with seats
i want gravy, not sauce; stew, not soup; a small bread melting butter
3 months from now the main differences are colder and darker
higher utility bills, holidays stormfront approaching
i move the clock ahead 6 hours but nothing changes
i wonder about freeways made of pasta, poisoned rivers
diluted enough to just give you a buzz
Do i melt like the snow falling elsewhere
stars breaking through the clouds in all the colors of
christmas tree lights, we gift-wrapped the turkey
stuffed small presents into large ones and baked them
it’s last call and the sun’s barely set
Every City’s Got One
Used cars, cheap burgers,
questionable groceries, frequent police
no one walking casually
More intestine than artery
more stomach than heart
82nd s more retrograde than mercury
though nothing moves that quickly here
car lot banners distracting walkers from
the obstacle course where a sidewalk should be
from the occasional slowing vehicle
who’s not asking for directions
82nd will never be gentrified
never unnecessary: some things
you don’t want delivered to your home
Signs say “avenue of roses” but no flowers,
business association call this
the jade district, though so little green here
and no gems: 82nd ‘s precious metals
are cars, needles, and shopping carts—
portland’s most diverse street
also its most american.
I live on 78th
82nd mostly stays on 82nd
only the sirens there are loud enough
to not be drowned out by the interstate
half a mile east, hundreds passing every minute
with no idea what urban splendor they’re avoiding
Rained In
So much rain falling
none of the drops can be connected
as one way as time
crossed by the wind running from—
the pressures always lower on some other side
where people forgot to grow
no stream to follow
the trees swore the birds to secrecy
The street looks like a river
too dazed to flow
my doors not ready to open yet
a change in data
a high probability of the same old shit
odor free ennui
The lone crow can’t fly in this rain
looking for an overhang to hop to
Don’t know the rain’s color
‘til it pools, too glutinous to bow
the street is imagining soup—
salt, fat and simmered roots
If leaves decided to pull in and never let out
seed going the wrong way on a one way
when roots flower, when we gather enough pollen to rail
before the wind clears the stage for more rain
Alien Buddha Press 
Nice, nice! Loving the feast!
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