Exacting Clam

I am pleased to announce I have some new poetry published in Exacting Clam. The fourth edition of the print publication is available to learn about online and available to order in print. I am also excited to see Thomas Walton’s work alongside.

Sudden, a poem

The sparks that come off the welding wand. It’s a blade, no, it’s a unnamed device in this spire of memory. Memorial. Conscripts dotting a geography of hallways and nightmares. Around each blowing curtain in the breeze, and I remember when the water wasn’t bruised and green. Binaural affectation. The Greeks had it correctly transcendental. Tracers of pings, the audibly bluish kind. Blowfish of splinters of sound, and I am unable to escape playgrounds of

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Winter Treatment, a poem

Merged from Dirty Winter and Treatment. Part One I’m driving through rose-tinted mountains, a range flipped on the head, arranged their ruffles in blue painted lead, like silkscreen waves, like oceanic current, like temporal parallax, like sweet simmering paralysis, crucified stately, narcissist martyr, pressure cooker, liminal lands took her, they all dodge the bullet I’m coming home, a long blow through the tow’s line, 405 keeping bright, maniacal alive, arresting the guffaw ahh, lickety split

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Treatment, a poem

With Amiri Baraka and Auscultation Coming home, a long blow through the tow’s line, 405 keeping bright, maniacal alive, lit up that magneto cape, what a slight shape, arresting the guffa a, lickety split and we’re back to the raw merging West a bit, to the central pit of awe, above the inch, along the rim, found the itch, strum the ridge, flick of the gas guzzle tongue punk, it’s getting grim, light’s satin saturated and

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Dirty Winter, a poem

With Auscultation Dirty winter driving through rose-tinted mountains, flipped on head, the ruffles of the blue, silkscreen waves, oceanic current, temporal parallax paralysis, their mobbed in Ottawa, they’re mobbed on the Black Sea, crucified, stately, martyr, pressure cooker, liminal lands, Lithuania, dodge the bullet, retreat to Poland, trance today, gone tomorrow, the slow burn, glow in the dark warfare, Chernobyl bullet holes, I’m swaying, swaying, heat, monger along the deep lagoon, Blue too soon, thrown

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The Fiend of Leschi (Live Recording)

Excited to post my last performance of poetry alongside Jim O’Halloran and friends, at Kezira Cafe in Columbia City, Seattle. While the poem has nothing to do with its predecessor, Return to Rain, it is the spiritual successor. Note the details in the video’s description: The Fiend of Leschi, a poem performed by Greg Bem with the Jim O’Halloran Trio. Recorded at Kezira Restaurant in Columbia City, Seattle, on 11/19/21. Device used: Galaxy S21+. Edited

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Resolving a project: Memory Forms: Ruin

Excited to announce a new poetry project is up on this site. Memory Forms: Ruin was rejected from a recent Shanti Arts call for submissions, solidifying it as an even “further ruin” that paired well with a situational recording of rainfall and other ambient sounds at Friday Harbor, in Seattle, Washington. The poems were written after visits to Sequim, Washington, and Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado. You can find the poems and the soundtrack for reading

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Return to Rain: A Poetry Reading Set to Jazz

A couple nights ago I had the pleasure of reading a poem with the Jim O’Halloran Trio at Kezira Cafe in Columbia City, Seattle. The poem, “Return to Rain,” is linked below. Here’s the segment of the set with the reading: And some larger selections of the show. Sadly, the focus was set to auto and was doing some really weird stuff in the low-light room. The sound isn’t perfect either, but better than null!

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Poem: Return to Empty

A palace among the dogwood and it trembles. Beyond the tiger lily an ancient rock. And its chiseled face bare. We are ruptured. We are dislodged. Memories captured, compressed in snow melt. Sun pushing inward, water pushed toward earth. Even on this day. Even in this breath. I can feel this return. I can feel this lingering emptiness. I feel as the long burn serves missive from the meadows. A typography of flame reaches out

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Questions with Rob McLennan

Today I’m very grateful to ongoing collaborator Rob McLennan, who invited me (back in January) to respond to his question prompts, “12 or 20.” I don’t often share much about my creative process apart from a few close friends, and Rob’s questions allowed me to dive in. You can read the questions (and see a fun image of me from the Olympic Peninsula) here.