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New!  “I tried it out this season and have fallen madly in love.” Shawna Coronado, Author Making A Difference Every Day


Composting For Dummies by Cathy Cromell p14 & p23-24
“…a friend of mine took her compost crank…when giving an outdoor demonstration to kids. They were thrilled with the opportunity to stir the compost, and she reported they didn’t want to give it up when she was ready to leave!”

Compost City by Rebecca Louie



Tucson Citizen
Boston Review Grand Cascade by poet Clayton Eshleman, see In The Arts


In The Arts

Grande Cascade

Out of the mother
urn the now ending
evers churn, they rhyme only
because I am free
here in fatal Gladys light. Let me kneeling
radiate my aging elfin sails.
Inbunched, outerflowered,
I am the hiss in this, the ripple wild
knoll in which my umbilicus sucks stones.
Paradise is part of my inherited billabong,
its stagnation, its warpings, are not my own.
Dionysus, let me not reduce or simplify,
allow me the wavering
miraginality of imagination,
let my fits and bits and catatripe
be venomous to the fake.
The body is a ruthless tribal compression.
Dreaming is less free than imagining,
for the dream factory has a quota:
certain roles are paid less,
someone has always forgotten to
oil the compost crank, the elf who runs
the umbilical bandsaw is always AWOL.
Ever perception
enters an imaginal file, buds in arrest
until swayed by a life-shifting rain
or the blight of the news of
an unknown person’s death.
For psyche, all bets are on nothing.
A fist slammed against the door
reappears as an eel in mourning.
A turtle who has just taken the veil becomes
the wind-filled sail of a wooden tub
in whose sudsy water one discovers one’s genitals,
eggs to be fried on Caravaggio’s canvas.
The vague is as crucial as the definitive,
the wave a part of the pier.
Whose genie does not accordion into Fudd and Marilyn,
then rebottle into Lautrec’s cognac-
vialed cane? Clouds are brains,
chryselephantine scrolls,
or so the mind registers its Matterhorns
half-waking out of dream, when snow and sneezing
are as relevant as the cut rose
you place in my hand every time you speak.

by Clayton Eshleman

From My Devotion, A Black Sparrow Book, 2004

As seen in April/May 2002 issue of the Boston Review

Clayton Eshleman was born on June 1, 1935 in Indianapolis, Indiana. He is an American poet, translator, and editor extraordinaire, with a B.A. in Philosophy and an M.A.T. in English Literature from Indiana University. He is the author of Juniper Fuse: Upper Paleolithic Imagination & the Construction of the Underworld (Wesleyan University Press, 2003), The Grindstone of Rapport / A Clayton Eshleman Reader (Black Widow Press, 2008), and the translator of The Complete Poetry of Cesar Vallejo (University of California Press, 2007). His many accolades include the National Book Award in Translation, a Rockefeller Study Residency, and a Guggenheim Fellowship in Poetry. Though Eshleman has lived in eight countries, he currently resides in Michigan with his wife, Caryl, whose has been his primary reader and editor for over forty years. He is Professor Emeritus in the English Department at Eastern Michigan University.