Wednesday, November 26


Fly, navigator.
This course draws demons.
White blinded-ness
Traces jagged edges of once-lovely things.
Windows reveal windows and
Doors conceal doors;
Faster the time moves
Beyond this twilit zone.
Stunned, we stand paralyzed.
Watchers wait behind the blinds.

Monday, November 24

Golden Calf

Such softness in the morning
A memory in motion
Golden calf in gentle posture
We watch with filmy eyes

Sweet sighs forever forming
A secret, special notion
To our hearts we’re hostage
In violet hue we lie

This pleasure brings no warning
Mélange of precious potion
The ache but serves to foster
Worshiped idols in the sky

Saturday, November 22

Little Girl Lost

She wanders
Skeletons drifting
Moss soft under feet
Bare and beautiful , dutiful thing
Times once were for girls
Like her

She hungers
Swift lupine limbs
Fulgent orbs ravenous
Furtive under firs, no sirs yes sirs
Pedestals in place for girls
Like her

She quails
Doe-y dewy one
Moon shell trembling
Beneath cloudy seas, naked knees
No one left to hunt girls
Like her

Thursday, November 20

The Din

Waiting in the kitchen
For the thing
That you bring
Can’t imagine darker fiction
Than the
Frantic string
Where the dust-collecting
On filthy wings
Must indulge whatever lives
In spite of

I suspect that you might notice
Tender skin
Stretching thin
Here, let’s play both host and hostess
To our
Weirdest whims
Watch the windows, we grow
Curious, it
Draws all in
Heat and rushing, faces flushing
Drowning out
The din

Tuesday, November 18

Something Stolen

Something stolen, wanted stealing,
Fired in a furnaced feeling
Compliments to detriments and
Things distasteful now appealing

Movement hesitant at first
Temeritous and brave it bursts
And fears of tears and other years
Challenged now to do their worst

Confessions flash prevarications
Take on all sweet complications
Breathe, pause, pulse and back again
To play out all the variations

They thought this, and he thought they
Such forests where we lose our way
Now love, now lost, now shadow play
And strangers do our hearts convey

Thursday, November 13

Little Clara

You’ve one foot in the grave, little Clara, little dear;
You have to take great care, be aware, do you hear?
You’re far too young to leave and bereave those who care,
So pinch your nose and slap your cheeks to get some color there.

But mother, I care not for the suns of this world.
My one foot in the grave now has more fun than any girl.
It dances with the black beetles scutting to and fro
And I cannot think of any cause to stay instead of go.

My sweetest chick, your arms grow limp, your eyes sink to pools.
Your skin is thin as paper and you look a fearsome ghoul.
Come back to us, don’t languish there upon your bed!
Don’t wallow any longer or you’ll soon be dead.

Oh mother, all the skeletons, they count my toes!
And it tickles like the greenest grass that ever grows.
What funhouse waits for me beneath the earth and stone?
I want it now; I cannot wait until I’ve grown.

Foolish child! Your whims are sins; you love not those
Who’ve upended all their lives to shape the end you chose.
Your days turn night; your soul takes flight; I hope you see
That you’ve carved yourself a coffin for eternity.

One foot follows fast the first—mother this is far from worst!—
Now my legs, my trunk, my arms, my fingers one through ten.
Only now remains my head, on the pillow on my bed,
But one tug and there it goes! All my guts and hair and toes
With my bones are dancing jolly in the corpse’s den!

Wednesday, November 12


Carmine, glass as glossy-eyed
The words in tongue slow liquefy

They evanesce, the moving swans,
Bashful as the orb-eyed fawn

In plumose beds, white moving warm
Two love two times twice now perform

Above divine the honeyed sweet
Bright goddesses in alate fleet

And red their jewels, and red their hearts,
And red the product of their art

Friday, November 7

Memento Mori

I remember your black, your small darlings,
Soft, how soft, and gentle in distant hours
Buttons adjusted, bibs aligned, fingers
Comb posthumous hair, preen the feathers of
Wee birds in the nestles of weeping arms

Artful dodgers, cold as clay, or the
Porcelain destitution of a warm thing, once.
Sought succor against your stiffening spine,
Requited the anguish with repelled caress
Fought terror, felt it everywhere, waned lovely thing

Babes in veils, stolid next to the others, mothers
Forcing mirth, shuddering other-birthed, trying
Every hair-tickled breath not to whimper, breathe
. . . hues of truth hide, though what
Twinkly gray shades show, the moribund decries.

Thursday, November 6


Fortuna smiles on unknown heads,
her eye of jewel glints down
from towers of cloud, angelic beds

where winged beings can't help but frown.
What fools are men whose grievance
lies in seeing others in golden crowns

while round the room in broken credence
dance our sullen little demons.
We dally in self-righteous deviance

expecting the goddess gift past reason,
and when in disappointment, tears are shed
we curse the garden that once was Eden.