Tuesday, December 10, 2013


Love has been transferred,
Though the shadows and echoes 
Of love burned over white snow, 
Leaves a trail of ashes;
When it melts,  so shall it be
Swept into the earth and sea,
And reside there, permanently.

Tuesday, December 3, 2013


Sea weeds dancing  
Eels like disembodied limbs preying on
Abandoned ego dreams; 
The Ancient Gnarled Bones of giant stillborn beasts;
Crooked frames of scabby steel;
Slimy, bloated wood, aging quietly
Deep beneath the current line, 
Slicing the horizon with the pulse of the tide--I died
I died, then born anew
A tail, legs, and claws grew; crawled to escape the bed
Of frothing shores that crept 
Across the lacquered mire;
Silky sands to hide its grainy tongue
Of singular desire.

Thursday, November 7, 2013

From Among the Shades of the Recent Dead She Came

Once upon an autumnal resurrection,
She burst from the starry earth;
Under a new moon, mica shards sparkled
In black soil, glistening 
Like eyes scattered in the dark.

Now in the evening, 
If you stare long enough without blinking,
You can see the curve of the land,
Rising slowly. Breathing.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

African Peach

prickly tang
citris sweet
my arms
my legs
my pussy
palms pink
eyes black
hot skin
promiscuous light--
hot burden of life;
the liquid weight 
of me;
crates of tea
brown, sweet, salty
as a rotten peach
dropped into the sea.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Mermaids & Fishermen

The machine of another week past. More hollow incantations.
Oh, Time, Gentle Lover
Cliché  and kind--my draft in the night--
Let me summon another spell, 
Now I am risen 
And too cold to cauterize these evening invitations.

Before sleep, I think now to shut the window.

A net lifted from the sea
Moves and breathes; 
Displays its wriggling collateral, 
And the fisherman's eyes remind me
That to be fettered, is unflattering.

Poppy seeds, or bobbin pins

(What cannot love, cannot 

And planted deeply
In the furniture, 
Between the broken springs (like dusty thorns)
Thrust from garden-patterned fabric.

Your abjection; m
y kindred blue abstraction;
He that mistakes sadness for beauty.
Ex all and erase 
Scribbled notes 
Among pastures of white margins,

And left to collect in the corners of kitchens.

He throws pennies into the ocean
For something untied.

But take the knots from my hair,

And I would become

Ocean foam 

Vapor trails;

A net lifted from the sea
Moves and breathes; 
Displays its wriggling collateral, 
And the fisherman's eyes remind me: 
To be fettered, is unflattering.

Monday, September 30, 2013

You Said Things Like, “Moderation”

And “balance”
But I wanted to be haunted
By the evening eclipse,
Tilting on solitary rhythms
Of shallow breath and deep fear;
We are not alike.

The grass still fresh and wet
Under a withering sun,
Rising up our dull slate ceiling
Stamped with the lucid memory
Of a ghost moon; pallor and pregnant,
With visions
Of delicate trespasses.

Hopeful whirring of cars in the distance,
Traveling to chosen destinations,
You asked if I was going to be okay.
I said, “who the hell knows what that feels like, anyway.”

Sunday, June 9, 2013

Little Astronaut

Little astronaut, the stars looked away.

                           Stripped of helmet and spacesuit,
Nothing between her and the infinite vacuum.

Little astronaut, the absence of gravity was grace.

                           Untangling the tethers
Tugged by the dark architect; the space between two futures.

Little astronaut stayed at foot of the bed, hovering in the atmosphere.

                           Gray hands, unnaturally smooth 
Over green cotton pastures, and roses in permanent bloom.

Little astronaut watched him to understand.
                           From gas, to water, to ice and unable to float too near,
She whispered softly, so only he could hear.

Sunday, May 19, 2013

Blues Haiku

The heat from your mouth
The heat from your mouth
Near the tip of my lashes
Holding my breath, I try not to move
(try not to move)
I believe in ghosts now
Because of you.

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Oberon's Lover

If I prayed for love in every language
it would sound the same
to the one whose name
I call in vain.
And if one day he did answer me,
I'd gaze into the sun-painted face
of the fairy king.
Then off we'd fly,
to his great empire,
where the air is perfumed with petrichor;
There I'd reside,
in my new home of soil and sky;
and be crowned Queen of the Trees,
Of nightingales, ant hills, and ivy-tangled trails—
and there he would love me,
 'til my mortal body did bind
with the grass and the leaves,
and all living things;
My gift of flesh to fertilize 
His lush kingdom;
So that when he'd look upon it,  he would look upon me—
and love everything.

Monday, May 6, 2013


Every stich and song and nursery rhyme

Sterilized by
Colonial perversions
Genetically altering;
Carved on stone
Printed on parchment
Etched on silicone—
Every stich and song and nursery rhyme

Thick brush and tall woods 
Lay natural 
No one to blame
For being left
With the smaller side—
Light a match, 
So it all
Turns flat

every stich and song and nursery rhyme

draw on 
cave walls 
our bodies, our own
this time.

Monday, April 29, 2013

What Happens Next

they rush because they're always in a hurry
especially when they get close to, or into their thirties;
drones reading time through their emails
or newspapers, receipts, and credit card bills;
through eggshell walls, "get married, have kids" She says
And so they do--but WAIT! I don't think I like this anymore!
when women wish upon a star
for happily-ever-after divorces;
they leave golems behind 
who always find girlfriends, 
ripe at twenty-five
to start again—"before you're too old and fat," She says.
But here, if you want something done and you need it done fast,
you wait in line with the rest
at the drive thru—open all night (bitching and moaning the whole time
while your muffler blows exhaust
into some stranger's lungs)
to find someone who makes you want to be
the better version of you,
and not someone who just tells you to.

But I'm Not That Angry About It

her value still hinged on the opinion of a man
like the rest, demanding it be proven to them
by the size of the ring they're given;
our bodies bartered and traded 
we expect to know our weight in the world
by its measure in carats
fooled again;
we're empowered right back into the kitchen
thanks to fuckin' Rachel Ray
and whatever bullshit media beacon
telling women knitting is for feminists.

Work of the Shaman

in between the flower and the bee
is the hive born from our creativity;
we procreate with nature,
regurgitate our youth,
giving birth to the truth
in the form of liquid memory;
wet, oozing, warm and sweet,
under the order of a queen we cannot see,
so someone else can eat our honey.

Saturday, April 27, 2013

A Quiet Jury Is Still Better Than Loud Indifference.

My dry hands, gripping the edge of the kitchen sink,
are pale as the piled dishes in front of me;
the squeak of the plates scraping against each other,
almost inaudible—but it makes me grind my teeth.

and from somewhere in the room,
I hear you say, something about,
her lying about a boob job
and that trip to Belgium for work, next week
and how Christmas makes you sad—

I listen to the metallic ting of the running faucet 's steady stream
vigorous tapping against flayed aluminum,
like tiny precious stones, trickling down the miles of pipe below—

and interject so quietly that there is no movement of my lips:
but you would rather go to church EVERY Sunday,
than EVER talk to a therapist.

I sigh through my nose;
sound of splashing, soothing
as I rinse the last dinner plate.

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Dark Matter

Lipstick blotted coffee cup–
Impartial wax print
Rash red against
White porcelain
A morning pick-me-up–

And then the bruise on my arm
That's been there for a week–
(Maybe more, I'm never sure)
At the edges, trading,
Blue for yellow–

I'm everywhere and nowhere;
Dark matter–
Always, since before,
And to be forever after

But in between:
Ghost hounds trampling
The valley, opaque with dank fog
And the pounding of paws–
Then the hollow howls halt,
To pause
And stale in the air
Consumed by the wind,
Carrying the words of its disciplinarian:
The dull, conservative hills;
Stoic, dead-eyed statues that stand
With a silent and permanent,
Grown-up command:
Be quiet, be still.

An old radio song sings along
To these lost thoughts;
Like footprints in the woods
Of some wild thing,
Faded and shallow after a hard rain–

And then the bruise on my arm
That's been there for a week–
(Maybe more, I'm never sure)
At the edges, trading,
Blue for yellow–

I'm everywhere and nowhere;
Dark matter–
Always, since before,
And to be forever after


Tuesday, April 23, 2013

A Dream, Probably

Your thoughtful call
So curt
It quieted
My cozy seasonal objections--
A performance
To initiate,
A familiar solstice-sensation
Of Christmas-time rejection
Decorated with cheap LEDs
Blinking my
Gelid isolation,
For the long dark hall
That seems to always be
The length of a December--
Blubbering, stumbling on
From black to dim and back,
Again and again;
Playful peeks
To make me wonder
If what shadows I desired
Were attached to a form,
Weary and hunched
Creeping along stone walls…
And all the while,
The sun, still out to lunch
And Time's red brake lights,
Tapping on and off--
Stubborn, silly old man,
Slow and determined
Deaf to my belligerent honks…
Then onward once
The insistent winds
Pour me to rest
Into my prison of home,
Those muddled waters
Where I swim circles with
My old reel to reel
Of self-devouring--
Indecisive Pisces,
Weaving belief
With loops and spirals
Thorough, from the threads
Of what I know--
Oppressive silence;
My Ouroboros;
Into something--
A dream, probably,
That does not exist
Outside of me.

Monday, April 22, 2013

Another Other

It's a Disease to Be Moved
By Love;
By Another,
Says The Drummer

Free and soft, is the other.
Like clouds on a hot tongue
It’s the weight that so rapidly dissolves,

It’s the ephemeral flicker—
Scattered light through barred gates,
Mathematically unattainable;
Shadows of dancers
Clacking clatter of heels; of shoes; of numbers;
Upon rows and rows of lacquered lumber—
All dead and calling to one another,
So they might, for once
Dance together
In rhythm with some greater drum
Which has always thumped louder
Than the serious chorus of lonely droning hums
Which know only how to speak to themselves
And no one else—
They cannot understand eachother.
So contagious are we;
To cough and sneeze
In tune with contrarian ideologies
That keeps us in step
With the beat that keeps us separate.

Friday, April 19, 2013

Would Ya Kindly?


the ocean
a metronome
our sky
a self-portrait
particles— abysmal existence;
simplicity of being.
what constant yearning
moves such
formal expectations.

rotation, rotation, rotation
dance, then
some of us