what giving creature is this

something like a whispered song

mere touch

her meaning is like the texture of the perfect

my mother has escaped love

that love is no mere enthusiasm


how comes the muse to the latched-upon artist


she wears galaxies of memorabilia

Tuesday, December 3, 2019

primul fiu, luna mea

the best thing, really,
is to live in someone else's

which is often quite easy
for this man to do when
it comes to his children.

i tinker with their
clocks a bit,
play in their minutes

like some threshing
child too bored to
remain inside.

it snowed today here,
son, and the schools
canceled their classes

and i lay inside of
a kind of warm imposture,
thinking about time.

how i've a lover who
lingered along a longitude
of upper hope and lower despair.

how i've a lover who
spoke her truth into the
ears of a denying child.

how i've a lover who
carried me across the threshold
from passion to friendship.

and i am ok with this,
good with where i am at,
primul fiu, luna mea.

but that is my life,
and need not seep into
yours. it shouldn't work that way.

you know very little
of any of that part of
my extant journey,

any more than i truly know
many of the moments that
brought you to your station.

i was not there, except as
a spectator looking through
a long glass made of the

particles of hope and joy,
frank expectation, and
prayerful reverence.

well...i was there, of course,
inside the cells of that
beating soul-heart,

the muscle of your
prairie spirit and
mountainous vigor.

you've done so well,
primul fiu, luna mea,
you've climbed out of

youth with the resolve
of gravity and the
balance of goodness.

you have astounded
and astonished me,
you have migrated.

you have sculpted with
delicate pupils a masterpiece
of impossible marble.

you have drawn a greater
horizon and marked it with
vitality and ferocity.

you have demolished the
tombs of fear and in their place
erected great, airy halls.

but that is past, and all history is sold
to time the way things
are bartered between enemies.

which is to say,
the way of the was
dwells in bad scriptures,

and the way of the
soon-to-be plays in
the ether of hope.

so i am most interested
in where you will be
after tomorrow's tomorrow.

to reside in your every second,
awash. to linger in your
minutes, quieted.

to await your return
with stories about
the hours,

primul fiu, luna mea,
so that i can know
you even better.

Saturday, November 30, 2019

how to make basic homemade love

in a large bowl, dissolve yeast and
1/2 teaspoon sugar in warm water; let
stand until bubbles form on surface.

infinite dreams begin in a
transparent solitude of diffused
light and agile essence, so

begin with your eyes closed
and pray to aphrodite in her
suckling sweet-wander.

whisk together remaining 3
tablespoons sugar, salt, and 3 cups flour.
stir oil into yeast mixture;

she may answer with a sigh
and move the crowns of three
skies upon your head,

that you may entwine and commune
with her and your lover altogether,
and thrice be enchorused.

pour into flour mixture and
beat until smooth. stir in enough remaining
flour, 1/2 cup at a time, to form a soft dough.

you will soon discover the apt ratifying
that comes of heart-fiber and soul-fate when
your lover and you,

foam-covered and now
so engaged, make a natural
peace among the enemies.

turn onto a floured surface; knead
until smooth and
elastic, 8-10 minutes.

the syllables upon your tongues
will engage in something green
and drowsy, as when dreams come,

and the melodies of the moon
will harp, and the hum of the
seas will float you.

place in a greased bowl, turning once to
grease the top. cover and let rise in a
warm place until doubled, about 1-1/2 to 2 hours.

growth comes with the agitation
of your blended existence and
from that an inclination

and desire to say, in a quivering
voice at night, when entwined,
something secret.

punch dough down. turn onto a lightly
floured surface; divide dough in half
shape each into a loaf.

hands on the flesh of hungry
hands, fingers within the
fingers of uninhibited dawn,

legs lapping legs and
lips licking at lips
until the earth trembles.

place in 2 greased 9x5-in. loaf pans.
cover and let rise until
doubled, about 1 to 1-1/2 hours.

time is perforated by time,
and set to the time-keepers
who keep it all hidden,

because we are not ready
for love, ever, and we are
not ready for life.

bake at 375° until golden brown and bread sounds
hollow when tapped or has reached an internal
temperature of 200°, 30-35 minutes.

silence bleeds us out, but
the sounds of love are varied
and primal

and mark us for whatever
destinies she can afford,
lessly dressed and naked by half.

remove from pans to wire racks to cool.

let love sit and rest and
let love be love and linger
in the shadows of our hearts

so that, when it is time,
we break bread - without the burn
of lost loves - but with the lovers who rise.

Tuesday, November 26, 2019


is it what's hidden
or upon the surface
of life where my
eyes are deceived?

all the damaged
collateral lives inside
the vaults of exalted

and that long
whip that strikes
with the wet tongue
lashes the flesh. 

ever at the
ready, i see things
in echoes, dormant
seeds, Gothic light. 

i have put things
in places, or i have
not, but together 
they float in

colonies of
debris within
fine excuses and

what i see is what
i can: ruminanting
fossils of stories
i have penned, 

to the point
of distracting
myself from the 
beauty of my heart. 

what i love 
about nature
is what she can
give: particles

and viscera of
the departed and
downcast, shot through 
with ancient grains of light. 

it's all closer to
twilight with each
day and i have no

just the flavor of
the skies above
and the hope of

what is here
is right there;
my eyes need look
no further. 

i won't know any
better anyway. 
so i will let life
incline toward life. 

Friday, November 1, 2019


i cherish the leaf
who's fall was of a design
not in her control,

and that she let go,
floating in an aimless twirl,
descending toward,

descending without,
abandoning resistance,
embracing her fate,

coming to full rest
upon a watery bed
joyful in the dance.

Saturday, October 26, 2019


she the dispossessed,
having dropped from her green perch,
is the way of life.

a long walk alone
finds me mulling her new state
in a chancy world:

a fruit of some tree,
cloying as the grace of eve,
is among new friends.

everything falls here;
faith, love, hope, time, are all braced
for good of the Truth.

i am the apple,
the searching leaf, the pine bough,
the draining waters.

all is returning,
all is hearty abundance,
all is what it is.

Tuesday, October 15, 2019

red dust


i love the pockets-full
of red dust
that you are:

a collector's
worth of archaeological
meteor-shower atoms.

that through my fingers
i might sift you
for a thousand years,

feeling the soft-soft
sigh of your breath
on my closed eyes.


you are of the uncommon
fires found in the
outest backs of the
wilderness of common men.

there, in the distance,
the shape of you is
bisected by the
cross-hairs of branches.

something to puzzle
toward, to be in
search of, to be too
far flung to catch.

that's a father's
prayer, of course; or a poet's,
whose pursuit is of the blood-stone
souls of far-flung words.


i'm tired of grace
and of words and
of the faith of men
and of time.

but i'm not tired
of you.

because one cannot tire
of watching the way
the moon commands the sea
from across the vastness of dark.


it is october, and things
have changed, but i
still go for walks and
talk to myself, mostly.

the maple is giving
up again; the ash and
the beech and the elm,
they're spending what they have.

it will be again soon
that i walk and can see
a better view of the moon
at night.

but it will be colder then,
and i will need to make haste
and go chasing my
breath toward the heat of home.


when you look back,
be it toward something.

when you reach,
be it far beyond them at least.

when you take pride,
kiss it on the lips.

when you discover
joy, be it.

when you find that
place, remember how.


this man, full of
failed words,
and propped toward
pity more than he should,
loves you, pockets-full
of red dust that you are.

Saturday, October 12, 2019


with this audience
of bent tree and leafy ground,
love's never dismissed

Saturday, October 5, 2019

frost on the tire

something comes from nothing
and the morning sprites, how
they light upon life with the
aplomb of kings to their thrones.

a child's bike laid on its side,
and within morning's reaches,
recumbent and receiving
her blessings of life-loss.

something comes from something
and the child who left the
bike upon the grass is asleep,
dreaming of something blue or green.

i have left a lot upon
the table, and allowed it to
speak to me from its history
to the point of distraction.

i have seen left things and
have mourned the loss of them,
only to realize later that they
gave to me what they should.

i walked around the bike
to gain a higher perspective,
to change from the lower view,
and perhaps change myself from me,

but came back around to the
lower, to inspect the frost on
the tire, to marvel with opened eyes
at the spectacle of descent.

how the autumn augers in,
strips the colors, makes way
for the princes of winter
and the crawl of demise.

something comes from itself and
the child who let go of the bike will awake
wiser, and will be something of a mystery
in how she looks to these eyes.

frost on the tire
this early in the morning says
to this father, 'Be unto the world
less wicked to oneself.

'love the evolution of the
child and let go the emulsions
that separate you from you.'

frost on the tire
will scatter with the rising sun
the way crickets dance from
my feet when out for a walk,

and the child will gather up
her bicycle and ride it
for a time before snow flies
in from the west with

winter on its hurried heals,
and things will wait 'til spring,
things will wait,
and i will be older

and so will she
but better so, for me.

Monday, September 30, 2019

leaf and her form

i have no poetry
for the echo of
the real, the form
of it and itself.

what can be love
if not a leaf, but also the shadow
of the leaf that was found
beside herself one day?

this fallen thing
that came to rest
here and placed her essence
nearby, thus leaving her
slightly removed.

that love in her various
natures is the thing sensed
- by smell or touch or sound
or taste or seen by these ruined eyes -

but also the thing above that
and therefore beyond it,
or in this case
beside it.

i was merely walking,
with no aim except not
backwards, when i
came to her this way;

her and her stronger self,
the shaken leaf
left to decay, dropped from
a congregation of

leaves whose cathedral
above me had not yet
released all its spreading

the perceived next to
the real is how i came
to understand what i
was witness to.

because what i have
come to know is that
both live as attracting
opposites, one the

same as the other,
but the other more
pure and more purely

so that i could believe
in the truth of the one
by witnessing the
shadow of the other.

which is to say
that i have sensed
love but not confirmed it until
just in this transitory moment.

i have lived among
it everywhere, but
now, only now, have
gained faith of its reality.

something does this for
us, gifting glimpses
of gold in the veins of
life to keep us true.

love is a leaf
gone to earth,
and love is what it is, and
best viewed as what it is without.

Saturday, September 21, 2019


remove yourselves, friends;
take yourselves out of the hall and
pack up the remnants of the day
in the echoing wake of all those condolences.

bind the bouquets with the bunting
of all your will, pocket them
as you leave through the door
and place them somewhere at home.

discard the starched shirts and the
pleated dresses; hamper the clothes
worn in the mists of sorrow and
elation that flowed in the tears.

remove yourselves forthwith;
and go back out into that world
from which the dearly has departed,
that gray-gray world of quandaries.

vacate the omens and the aspersions
of the lesser souls who've played at your
fears and poked at your eyes like
needles of light.

see the after-gone of her as an entry
that leads you beyond the cold
interior of those lousy moments
that once bound you to despair.

and see her blow you a captivating kiss,
or whisper you a fantastic fairy tale,
or sing you a silly song,
or dance you into a temperate light.

fold up the chairs, friends;
remand yourselves to a better place and
skip the receiving lines of hostile
energies so that you can breathe again.

warm-bathe yourself with your lover,
or eat ice cream with the same spoon,
or fold your arms into their soul,
or read great poems to them.

walk along a slender road with your child,
or spray them with words of great zeal,
or swallow their laughter with great gulps,
or cartwheel yourself through their joy.

jar a fistful of errant pennies for your friend,
or nibble on the inner-ear of their victories,
or penetrate their difficult orbit with a burp,
or share with them your favorite flavored happiness.

for the departed has no quarrel,
has no trespassing demons,
has no malignant nights,
has no vanishing days,

and she endeavors to breathe into you
the air of something as surpassing as the stars,
something as fine as euphoria,
something as peaceful as prayer.

so remove yourselves, friends;
take yourselves out of the hall and
pack up the remnants of the day
in the echoing wake of all those condolences.

go home to your lover,
your children,
your friends,

and be delightful

Wednesday, September 11, 2019

come: happiness to her

come: laughter
          and warmth
          and peace
          and serenity
          and calm
          (to hug)

come: family
          and kids
          and god
          and work
          and church
          and melanie
          and babies
          and freedom
          (for coffee)

come: kids
          and canoeing
          and water
          and laughter
          and solitude
          and success
          and accomplishment
          and (good) sleep
          (unto mom)

come: memories
          and family
          and friends
          and music
          and sunshine
          and ocean
          and health
          and silence
          (with travel)

come: contentment
          and gratitude
          and pleasure
          and joy
          and love
          and community
          and awareness
          and wellness
          (near connection)

come: warm
          and soft
          and pink
          and fuzzy
          and bright
          and outside
          and breeze
          and leaves
          (within sunlight)

come: smiles
          and laughter
          and cookies
          and snow
          and christmas lights
          and babies
          and kindness
          and halloween
          (beyond thunderstorms)

come: ukulele
          and fields
          and quiet
          and flowers
          and stillness
          and comfort
          and warm
          and empowered
          (beneath sunshine)

come: daughter
          and nature
          and ocean
          and art
          and music
          and lexapro
          and poetry
          and blankets
          (toward driving)

come: love
          and sunny
          and candles
          and cozy
          and coffee
          and free
          and bloom
          and flow
          (throughout stories)

come: family
          and chocolate
          and love (euphemistically used)
          and broadway
          and creativity/creation
          and coffee
          (among girlfriends)

come: flowers
          and hunting
          and kayaking
          and fishing
          and gardening
          and friends
          and family
          and my kids
          (upon the outdoors)

come: family
          and love
          and nature
          and health
          and water
          and adventure
          and discovery
          and knowledge
          (nearest acceptance)

come: laughter
          and comfort
          and love
          and warmth
          and friends
          and passion
          and floating
          and hugs
          and burst
          (around safety)

come: love
           and family
           and friends
           and forehead kisses
           and art
           and adventures
           and comfortable silences
           and summer skies
           (along trust)

come: love
           and laughter 
           and belonging
           and peace
              the smell of a wood burning
           and the color yellow
           and children
           and butterflies
           and thunderstorms

Sunday, September 1, 2019

still thinking

she said:
     colorful, adventurous!
     abandoned, forgotten!

then she went quiet as clouds

     still thinking...

i would play with my toys
the same manner in which thunder
storms played with the fears of

nothing escaped my
incessant desire to see what
could be turned out when in;
i come with litanies of apologies.

the things purchased by
my parents i laved in mud-
water and tossed against

as if what was new was something
of a suspect promise and needed to be
put to a mythic test at the hands of
a Pagan, rock-throwing Jentil like me.

they came polished and packaged,
pure as the soul of a newborn;
tidy, and there is a waiting lie in something
so pasteurized.

she said:
     colorful, adventurous!
     abandoned, forgotten!

then she went quiet as clouds

     still thinking...

we had a flea market a mile
from my grandparent's home
and Pappy would take us
young cousins on saturdays.

he made a promise that
he kept: something under a buck
and it's yours, so we
picked over long, weathered

picnic tables that were
daisy-chained together down the
length of the side of the road
by the old shoe factory.

other people's shit
Pappy would growl,
but he always came away with

and so did we: malfunctioning
jack knives or chipped
Budweiser shot glasses
or a dented Boy Scout canteen.

i once came away with
a tin toy that had been handled
so much by some past child
that the paint was ghostly

and the figure of it so
abused that it was difficult
to tell what the toy had been
in its virgin state.

i took it home and
placed it on my bureau
and no one was allowed to
touch it; i ached for its broken story.

it had been played out,
its story caught in the
fingerprints of age and time,
it sang a truth.

i have a lover who sits in
a coverlet of longing,
thinking back upon whatever
it was, now that it is now was.

she thinks:
     colorful, adventurous!
     abandoned, forgotten!

then she goes quiet as clouds

     still thinking...

Saturday, August 24, 2019

light through a window

his smile was a type of
camera, and we talked about
the girls in the halls,
and we had scarlet

conversations about how
glazed everyone else was
and how they were the dead

straw of life and how Karen
Carpenter knew how to
make us feel exalted.

we stole books from the
book fair and he became ripe
with guilt and burned them

in a small pile behind his
house to hide the evidence,
i kept mine of course.

parts of our youth were
sulfuric, and we sat in the
pews and passed notes

about going to camp,
would my folks mind?
we can swim at night.

we did not swim at night,
though, because he feared
we'd get caught.

he was studious to the point
of a quivering leaf; i
failed what i hated

and walked the halls
among our peers as
if a sword blade of dusty light.

the triumph was in the
pilgrimage of stars in
our separate infirmities;

how we were of a certain
small tribe of people who
wander against latitudes.

i suspected that his
indifference to the passions
of love was a deep,

meticulously hidden
mask of thieves, and
that what he craved

he could not speak of,
not in our age of dissecting

his truth was a spasm,
really, it was a wrinkle
of sheets and he slept unkindly.

he asked me if i liked
being a father, and i said
yes of course.

he asked me if i liked
being married, and i said
yes of course.

his drowsy questions
were inclined to
disentangle his myths,

i believe; to remove those
walls briefly and peer
though an open window.

i believe he loved me,
but i can't be certain, but
i was never certain with him,

the one who walked the long
way through rows of
suspended shadows and

was never one to share out
the tenderness in the deepest
parts of his tissues.

i should have told him that
i loved him, if only to assure
him that what i valued

was that he was real to me,
that i was not as pleated as
i seemed to be at times.

i took a picture of a window
recently, through which the
last light of the day

yawned, and made the
interiors seem like hope
was not without shadow,

that life was not without
delicate betrayals, that
love was not a feeling.

dreaming souls have it
worst, all leaping urges
left alone to die.

his last escape came
in the night, when no
one could see him.

which is the way he
liked it: obscure
and unassuming.

there is no significance
in things not said between
people, to be honest.

what is spoken is there,
and everything else is a
closed window.

i tell myself that,
but really, it's not
the least bit true.

Tuesday, August 20, 2019


do you remember,
she danced in our dreams?
- and how the questions were all
ominous, like first-of-night
touching the landscape?

do you remember,
everything was so badly described?
- and how the shallow valley of
old winds just wouldn't
cease to vex us?

do you remember,
naked flowers under a bruised moon?
- and how acrobatic fate was all we
had to clutch in those moments
of blanking losses?

do you remember,
the obscurity of wanderlust?
- and how her arrival was
like a mad impulse of
mystical stones?

all terrifying thrusts
and shapeless sounds
and un-gemmed words
and primitive dance-songs
became our mediums.

now, splendor in her
kingdom, and serenity in her
legend, and nourishment in her
veins of delight are come to us
like an avalanche of lovers,

burying all those dead
agents once and for all,
and leaving us the beauty
of a girl in a swing who is
none the wiser, but lifted.

Tuesday, August 13, 2019

i'm not certain in which room

well -

i'm not certain in which room
He thought you'd ought reside,

since -

square is round as square can be
when all you do is hide

from -

all His hurried days that race
across your pebbled street,

since -

blades of grass ignore the touch
when faced with His retreat

toward -

lightness chalked by blackish coal
that's dug with bitter hands

which -

bleed upon His stretch of time,
congealing where you stand.


i'm not certain in which room
He thought you'd ought reside,

so -

do your best, son, do your best,
and let the Fates decide.

Monday, August 5, 2019


you crack me open and
the split receives your
relentless flow;

you jest - your wit is
wicked - and you release
great waves of silly.

if i were to remake you in some other art form what would you be?
what i have now is poetry, that dance of watery concessions to language.
i would draw you, then, with crayons made of blood-wax, blindfolded;
pin it on a surface, drink it daily, and not sign it.
this stone, molded by heat and pressure, time and violence,
has its ancient faces placed by ancient foes,

you decipher them
with action figures
and bicycle wrenches and

you find no correlative
significance in the way you
use your feet and hands poorly.

your innocence is a pouring
over, a soft-droplet shower
of powder-blue questions.

you ask certain things
multiple times in your
quest to stay afloat,

and i answer them as best as i can, but i'm better with a pen.
for example, i have no idea which Avenger i would be if i could,
or which weapon i would prefer in the event of zombies.
your tongue and your lips are transmitters that wash
a signal over me until all i can hear is the sound of you dreaming,
a perfect pitch that buoys me to points above the compass.

you sweep away the surface
dust and get to the
chiseled truth;

your instruments of that
undoing rest in the palms
of your thirst.

you kneel at the site
with magnificent calm and
approach my stone with care.

your blood on the skinned
flesh has dried and it looks
like spilled Kool-Aid.

my brother once swung me from the feet in cyclonic carousel circles
in our old living room until my head struck the corner of a brick on the mantel.
i blacked out and bled and he brayed with laughter. the blood on my shirt was alluvial.
i sculpt with ink, bearing down on the truth in the rock.
i harden my resolve and whet whatever appetite that growls.
in this way, i am dependent on your graciousness and untied sneakers.

i am a stonecipher
you crack me up good

Sunday, August 4, 2019

she comes to terms

she had no agency,
and she never spoke.
impoverished, wandering, cool-eyed,
intricate fabric of hand-spun hopes.

there was once a riot of beautiful
people on her small stage, a cult
of the tired who danced between
great oaks of the living and the dead.

with bright thoughts on all harbors,
she was one of them to be sure,
but an old wind wound up and
carried her into an uncomfortable home.

she had to make it all out of bones
again, the foundation to the tower bell,
unearthing rocks to remove them,
singing in the darkness of blood.

life is a caste; a glacial, atomic,
tribal dance; a slow water in
the crevices of the fingers for
a woman made of confessions.

so she must endeavor to
wail at those old faces, so that
she might unmask her furious
hurricanes of fate and love.

she comes at this differently
now, deciphering as she goes,
uttering prayers beneath a
breath made of ancient dignity.

to poke through the pains of glass,
to bite down on her lip
and relearn harsh principles
that she can then discard.

everything has been left
half-eaten for her. everything
has been left to wash up
on the shore.

everything is soapy and
feels like it was just not
meant to be, and whatever
generous bounty was someone's else's.

but in this new face,
but in this new graciousness,
but in this new center,
but in this new sacred text,

she comes to terms

Sunday, July 21, 2019

play out

i was on the other side,
i was blind and silent as numbers.

i was an instrument of parachuting clouds,
i was a fugitive and an oath to the moon.

i was sown into the plaited earth,
i was boys running and assailing open fields.

i have sons whose purity heaved
with the wildness of the forest,
and who listened to the great
overtures of the Mother when she sang.

sons are a translation
of some ancient scripture,
written on the expanded sky
that rains down their truth.

i was a matter of fact,
i was vigilant and a fleeing disregard.

i was posed in a museum,
i was disordered and rending the flesh.

i was happiest in the silence of breathing,
i was pen to paper and a fragrance of joy.

i have daughters whose riddles menaced
me with their adoring contradictions,
and who heard from the lips
of oblivion lessons about joy.

daughters are a revolution
against some ancient tribe,
taking up arms with the fury of Athena,
building temples upon the hills of cynics.

i believed in the walking
and the waking of mornings,
of the summers of long grass
and the night sky of august.

i trusted in the wonder
and the wander of the soul,
of the change of autumn
and her tilt toward reclamation.

i was a child, living among
the length of wonderment that
stretched as far as i could see,
and i lived in the moment.

my children lead me
away, in a playful manner,
like the laughter caught
in the petals of flowers.

and i put words to the page,
imagining these things
are clear, to make sense of them,
but i think they'd rather i not

and to just play

Wednesday, July 17, 2019

she doesn't like the rain through the window

she doesn't like the rain
through the window,
and a kiss is a prayer.

she doesn't like the reeling
gravity of a destroyed
passion either.

but she loves like a
whirling Eros,
and her hands are growling.

(this is a woman
who abandons the sea
for the beach rose after all.)

she says people are good
because they are and
they want to be,

but she doesn't like the rain
through the window,
and a prayer is a kiss.

she finds god wading in the
menace of the purest chaos,
and she still shades toward love.

she thinks too much
about the limbs of all
those fallen branches,

she thinks too much,
but she doesn't like how the
stars are just collapsed promises.

i don't know this
woman as much as
i say i do.

don't be fooled; men
menace good fortune
wherever they find it,

they sing their own praises, thinking
to do so is to fashion for themselves
something of an infinite well.

when in truth, we have no
original waters, only women
do, and it is made from their blood.

we met because it had to
be, and all the fine excuses
of life were scattered.

i should make allowances
for my own blind failings,
i should be easy on myself

and walk backwards for awhile,
to keep my head from looking for
something; to learn to breathe.


she is stained glass
in a hungry cathedral
wanting to be dishonest,

but she can't do it;
her womb is too much
of a sacred psalm,

because this is a woman;
and the laughter of her
child holds the real taste of blossoms,

not the words of the poet, or
the vows at the altar, or
the hands of the lover.

people change and
the camber of their hearts
is the shape of real love

that pierces through
the thunder in a
plunging field.

it is unscrupulous
in its designs toward
terrorizing the unfaithful.

it is made to muscle
out the conventions
of the lofty and the proud.

the women i know are not
hungry for you, my friend, but for
an audience with their own destinies.

for example...

this is a woman
who wears sequins
at the funeral of her history,

if only to announce
to the world that the rain through
the window is just another nuisance;

that she is on the verge of
reconnecting to something primal,
something eternally in touch;

that she embarked, she dived
in, she sojourned toward
something you don't understand.

i don't know this
woman as much as
i say i want to.

i try too hard, that's
really the problem,
my want is a toppled pier

that has surrendered to
her breaking waves, her
formidable tide.


she doesn't like the rain
through the window,
and her kiss is scriptural.

it is given and not taken,
it is a profuse offering,
profitable to those who understand

that she is equal to the task
of whatever rain that might
come through that window,

and that she needs you not.

Saturday, July 13, 2019


i'd like to think they put
them here, in some
half-insouciant effort to be found
by a lover
who takes them,
in a fit of passion,
the way that happily-
ever-after tied things up
nicely for you-know-who.

the world has never worked that
way, really. it's filled
with the dead ends of
guilt and the traffic stops
of never-ending untidy
shame in which so many
of my friends have found
themselves drowning;
this universe has no driver.

but i'd like to think they put
them here, stained with
the imprint of heavy feet,
like a bronze chalk outline,
and that this lover discovers
them and goes about
their kingdom on a horse,
or at the very least a compact car
that they had to buy

with a bad odometer and
a slack tire;
and that they have only coins to
pay for gas and that they have a bad
tooth, and that they forget to call
their ailing mother, and
that they've been reduced by some
for being less-than and
that they're lost in a small-cloud way.

so that when they find
their lover, and slip on these
unglassed sandals with their
toe-prints and smelling like
ripe unreasonable failings,
she appreciates that they
came back anyway, despite the
world's caving-ins, and that she
knew it was for a just cause.