Friday, May 30

Under the Rug

With a shy, sly fist the captive knock, knock, knocks
On a door set in the floor of a carpet shop.
He was swept under the rug like a bug long ago,
And he wishes to revisit why they hid him so.
They, however, thinking clever, are against this plan
And the knock, knock, knocking of this little man,
For the things that he will bring into the light are raw,
Sad wounds—it’s far too soon—considering what he saw.
Little creature, ugly features turn your sweets away.
They must hide you or abide by all the tricks you play.
They are not risk takers; they are fairytale makers
Weaving orientals—monumental promise breakers.
Give no quarter to their words; don’t imagine you’re preferred,
Or dear friend, you’ll meet your end under the floor unheard.

Tuesday, May 27

The Naming of Things

considering the naming of things:
our preferences show deference
to labels

twelve small fingers there, a visage prophesied everywhere
the curvature of a promise told, that through misadventure grows woefully old
aquatic light-playing nuances, perilous stirrings in nighttime seances
marble halls splintered and razed, mirth in a harrowing endless maze
worship of a familiar stranger

we name it all 
force comfort on what discomfits
condescend to tie ends
feel better, now
feel better

Saturday, May 24

The Author

In the silent places, softness
Responds to warm breath;
Fine hairs rise, rouse

The lithe creature beneath
Skin to which it is not accustomed.
The author’s press impresses,

Touch draws pulses, wakens ash.
Steam cushions roaring minds
And the quiet ruptures,

Splits apart, mocks admonition.
Tempests pump hot blood
Through hot beasts.

Then free at last speaks
The forbidden mouth,
And eager ears relent. 

Friday, May 23

This Lily Bride

With what gravity will she collide,
This stuff of which she’s made,
These little lonely pearls inside?

Too timid, far too child-eyed,
She dwells in endless shade;
With what gravity will she collide?

In constant caution of false pride
Through apparitions always wade
These little lonely pearls inside.

And who will bloom this lily bride?  
By whom will she be swayed?
With what gravity will she collide?

Escape is ever lost, denied.
No gentle champion crusades
These little lonely pearls inside.

In darker worlds she’ll fleetly hide,
For sorrows fast pervade.
With what gravity will she collide—
These little lonely pearls inside?

Thursday, May 22

Primary Colors

April leaf, diamond waters,
Foaming eddies
Around small toes.
Here sit we,
Two sparks amongst the
Fern fronds.
We alone
See the primary colors
Of all things living.

Tuesday, May 20

To Erebos

Within such worlds
I saw a globe—a globule of light.
In it reflected was the emerald of earth and
Her envelope of sea and sky.
Neptune’s dominion, the mind, defies,
Fathoms deep, where jeweled things sigh
And the fortunate sink, sink, sink and lie.
The hours and years move as salted sand
Slides soft through fingers of an open hand.

Above, the ceaseless stars in a universe
Whose limitless leagues inspire poetic verse.
And upon a bit of turf sit I, a sad thing cursed
To forever ruminate on the daydream’s hearse.
Not winged nor gilled nor free am I
To sink or sail through sea or sky.
Apollo’s golden horses cry
For riders, but I cannot rise.

Instead, my thoughts to Erebos turn,
And as Caliban did, for the clay I yearn.
The million corpses lying prone
In homes of root and binds of bone--
So, too, will this be my cloister last.
I’ll sequester myself to all things past,
While futurely, the great ones arrive,
Make sacrifice to hear what we knew when alive.
To Erebos, that immutable gate,
Does my enduring place await.

Monday, May 19

The Live Factory

What is a thought but a teardrop of light,
A shifting prism of wavering colors,
Tinkling against the dark, so bright,
Echoing in the night of the mind,
Floating, a lily pad on black waters,
Pearled lotus petals opening elegantly,
Trembling as those stars—the moon’s daughters—
Evoking motions of a similar kind?

Still as the silence of the deepest sea,
Yet murmuring the promise of a goassmer wing,
Begin the whirrings of the live factory
To blink us free of advancing blind.

Wednesday, May 14

A Funeral and an Angel

Willows drape their weary wings;
The angel moves within.
A beatific time long past
Foretold this seraphim.
Her vaporous form through misted tears
Was known one gentle day
When feathered doves took flight above
And premonition played.
Forlorn, this pure celestial being
In silvered robes of light
With eyes downcast and softened step
Sings hymns to his long night.

Monday, May 12


clouds sprint, diffuse
across empyrean eyes, dayligts bright
broken here, there with cylinders of sun
in this undulating jade sea
windblown, loveblown
caught between cloudstrip shadows
beneath the molten warmth
they replicate infinite days

creation shifts, permutes
cools toes in alpine pools, kisses in locks
of raven waves blue with arousal
drowsy insects throb in balmy air
where pyramids break
the edenic awakes
in paradise, the sublime reigns,
eternal, in them

Friday, May 9

Fungi Fantastiqe Pt. 2

beneath mercurial
sapphire waves
of sky
on reefs of stony sand
verdant banks
up high
dancing so delicate
brittle arms
fauna move through branches
salmon-colors shifting
so green
violet coral beguiles
deepest sea

The lady crosses forest floor;
Her presence dapples leafy shores
With form demure and never more. 
The lady holds herself within,
And many days her shyness wins;
She’s anxious of what might begin. 
Yet when appears the true footfall
The lady can’t her fate forestall;
She flutters out her veil, her shawl. 
Her foamy tatting, all around,
The lady finds her proper ground.
She fans herself for comfort found.
No harbingers cry out its name;
This seed tucks deep inside.
Grows quickly, never shows its game
Until the moment’s ripe.
And then it chews you from within;
It gnaws convictions, bites your bones,
Replaces tendon, juice, and then
Explodes through skin—you aren’t your own. 
Such artistry in every spear;
With love and skill it carves your form.
Caresses lace the pain, my dear;
It pines to keep you ever warm.
Horrors of the borderlands,
Hands of murderous redcaps pace,
Chase travelers, wanderers, men—
Then spikes and poles,
Roll the heads of every one,
Fun for the redcap, rosy
Posey, in the blood, the fools’
Pools, spreading about the veins.
Pains we take, we nasty things,
Brings us life, the death of more.

Thursday, May 8

What Should Have Been Written

Here’s what should have been written:
The absence of you will be noted;
Your surreal presence in halls
Of powdered light and reasons to care,
This maze of bodies and corners,
Navigated to run off course to you.
Apologies for the lack of fearful courage
—fear too unfairly great—
And though chance presented you,
All emptied when you were near,
 Spirits went vapid, poured by some giant’s hand
Into a space where rabbity creatures hide,
Hatching a trembling void.
Small waters awoke inside;
The movement of their sound distracted, and
Minds lost their ways to mouths so usually clever.
A stranger spoke strange words, then.
If secrets are what you have to give,
They would have bloomed gardens of golden prisms
Whose brilliance would outshine shame.
It is a lost moment,
And yet it has come to pass.
Eternal does this core ignite confusion.
Such poems have been writ for you.
This goodbye lacks its goodness.
It's a different kind of puzzle,
No numbers in boxes--just boxed in.

Tuesday, May 6


Hearts glimmering, we face the end,
A consummation deprived of friend;
Expectant tremors move the earth
This moment, with our newness birthed.
Together, link your hand in mine.
We will run, run, run. 
Ablaze our passwords, held so long,
Unfastening chords faster than song,
Farewell, blithe reticence, flash away;
Our concord pays for yesterdays,
So never-mind what’s left behind
While we run, run, run. 
I flare into a perfect me!
I burst perfection perfectly!
And you—such thunder, such a show!
My marvel, in awakened throes;
We found our privilege, our finish line—
Trust it now, we are divine:
Come run . . . run . . . run.