Wednesday, April 30

The Belfry of the Gods

You keep it within, some inward pocket;
the inspired things never leave the mind,
never light nighttime paths.
You fear the purgatory for
wooden fingers grasping at stars.

Yet through an unkind lens, you sense
meadowed skin, cool to the moon,
the crystal vault above, the swelling sun below,
no ruddy cheeks for motives freed;
nebulous seem our adversaries.
We die in timeless, whispering sighs,
not bodies, but gasping lungs,
breathing for once, for ourselves,
for we are the architects of our dreams
in the secrets we’ve withheld.  

The belfry of the gods
shames primeval doctrines,
peals endless aspirations.
It grows hearts sequined with chambers,
for your nearness hollows me,
as some small cup emptied, turned top over.
Demeanor feigns diversion;
I tuck into my folds, my whims,
and little white houses
are homes for the din.
Still--every toll belongs to them.

Tuesday, April 29

Eleven Strangers

This pristine place bears no name;
Collected faces are in constant orbit
While I in dark material remain.
Eleven strangers bear the weight
Of a flawed world, not unwilling,
Though unwitting. Like so, arrayed.
One cedes space, then another,
And my small, fine world erodes,
Disintegrates into emberous love.
Eyes fold in color—reds
Touch soft black blinds, pinch
At sinking thoughts, forget.

Monday, April 28

Turkish Doll

Braided hair and colored bits
The Turkish doll
Whirls on
Dervish dancer arms outstretched
The tinsel frills
Shine on
No child’s gift, this strangest thing
The painted face
Looks on
Cloth pulled over wooden pegs
The toy maker
Grins on

Friday, April 25

The Questing Beast (or Glatisant)

I wander pearled sands, murkish glens, earth tunnels damp and black,
Seeking the evasive beast, the creature Glatisant.
This onus ever has been mine—to take the thing intact.

The days, they rage upon me now; each year it bolder grows.
Its irrepressible temperament I no more than ever know.

The diversions that so enthrall my prey are Deplhian to me;
Its shameful deeds, frenetic whims lack not of devilry.

Ever a step behind the foe,
I dream this beast had never been.
The walls it builds repel all from
Its sacred lair, its secret den.

My steps are always in its feet--
My Glatisant, my terrible sweet:

Oh, lost is all when at last I see
The beast I’ll never find . . .

Wednesday, April 23


This impasse looms
blooms into misconceptions
reflections strange
derange its face
displace the joy
boy she thought she might have felt.
This deadlock wails
pales as the morning glory’s
story concludes
exudes defeat
sweet at each dawn
yawns the sleep that folds its head.
This sign-off spoils
coils serpentine fingers through
blue-gray shadows
gallows where hang
pangs whose last twitch
stitch the shroud of unsought end.

Friday, April 18

Fungi Fantastique Pt. 1


Blood-beaded marshmallow
On forest floor
Dewing our night-dreams with
Vampirish horror
Devil—you lost it—
Now salivate red;
You roam through the trees,
Seek what fell from your head.

Fluff fantastic, a foaming basket,
A waterfall fungi fa├žade.
The goat-man, he romped
Through the fern-carpet fronds
And sought to elude the gods.
He left his beard here,
He left his beard there,
Fur decoy, confusion so odd.
And when he was done
He failed to reclaim
The shaggy face now grown so broad.

On you, thing of the earth, the wood nymphs rest—
The Dryads, the Meliai, the Caryatids—
When flitting from whatever they flee.
Your kindly soft brown concave perch
Perhaps even once held Eurydice.

Her voice was lovelier than those of the sirens
For whom sailors swooned to their deaths
When taken in by their song.
But a viper unseen tangled with her flesh,
And Orpheus wept at the wrong.

When the moon is a lantern
The faeries come out,
And oh what a sight to see!
With their mischief, their meddling, their merriness,
They caper about the country.
Bright bits of ribbon
The highest prize,
Cavorting takes on a goal;
The pixies prance, the pixies dance,
With their delicate blue parasols.

Wednesday, April 16

A Thing Dead

A thing dead breathes a thousand breaths,
Dissembles the infinite with its death.
Abashed are the fools who believe it finite;
Foolishness dwells in eternal twilight
While eternally stirs luscious memory.
The succulent stirrings once so fiery
Are always afire in darkened caves
And cavernous wax sweet remembrance’s waves.
As waxen-faced figures fill halls in our hearts
The breaths of our reveries create a new art.

Sunday, April 13


brush of fern against bare skin
panic in bones
gasp breath gasp
blue-black velvet night
pressing on all sides
run run run
no looking back
thick black fur sprouts
moonlight reflects silvered mouth
liquid agility
The day-bright orb in the black
hangs high—