Genuflections of Open

…as much as she longed to, she didn’t approach him:

there was no room, only he was there, giving

a radiance that hurt her eyes…


Crying, she was relieved that the pain

made her eyes water.  Just the simple


act of shedding tears, even if it was simply

a physical response, makes her feel


like a mountain side being eroded

by the beating waves of some polluted


ocean, or an icecap melting down

to the deep.  Erosion is a form of melting


or eclipsing strength.  With a hard

swallow, she tries to speak, but no


sounds would pass her parched

lips.  Terror took her, cradled her


every inch, shrinking her, clearing

the breath right out of her chest.  She gasps


in delight of openness: the essence of divinity

in the movement of humid air.  Her graces come


from a slow controlled inhale ready to

embrace the burdens of godless dervishes


spinning everything around so it moves faster

than she can notice.  She’s distilled from the tisk,


tisk, tisk, let go of bitterness, if you don’t it will

just fill you.  Sitting right back into herself becoming her


own chair, comfortable there, despite something

sinister spinning.  All of the angels did sing,


while waiting to stand in

for everything:  lists of names


dancing out of time.



protectress of the girl child

Artemis, have you made me in your

likeness, because you failed


at your job?  Is that the thing

which lead us here?  We are both like


wild animals, on the hunt in the wide

open wilderness of the air.  I am no


virgin since a shameful age, yet I live


like one every day at this age

which I’ve become.  You made a good


warrior, while you lost

  both my innocence and womanhood.

Screaming at God


I can’t offer you anything

real.  It’s all lost in


the ether of translation.  Out among

the stars of Orin’s Belt…the only


three stars visible out there


among the storm clouds.  You don’t even

know what that means!

Grocery List Divorced from Food

What is it that makes

you stare at the blank page

hoping for a connection

even if just with the typeface

these words are in?  How

long must you keep telling the same

story over and over to be other than

fiction?  Out of the night, you sit in

your kitchen writing

the same words on the grocery list.

1.      Get away

2.      Get away

3.      Go away

4.      Save yourself

Feel Poisoned

The smell of diesel blankets the air

full of carbon monoxide, Mobil             death


traps bring us toxic water in a bottle

that looks clear and clean                    making us too eager


to bag it.  Cesium drip,


drip, drips slowly so not to                 stir our senses

in the direction of the malformed


murder of all kind. Our

oceans are becoming


radioactive run off sweeping

the shorelines full of fish.  Stunts


present themselves as fine

art, then make a dumb


spectacle of all of its                           witless

witnesses.  It doesn’t matter,


the Olympics


are on. We produced for ourselves

the virtual reality of living. Tar and chips


have replaced the soil for roots

to grow.  There’s no life that exists


in tar.  Beggars we’ve become

begging bigger, better, more, more, more.


Feel the synapses as collapse is the culture

around.  Stare blankly at that screen.

Make Me Danaid, Augusta


I don’t want to be

a part of a finely tuned machine


where each part, cog, spring, and sprocket

has a purpose that it better not


deviate from or the whole thing


becomes obsolete.  The smooth cool

of sculpted marble is how I’d


rather flow.  No rough edges or points

of failure.  White silken lines of details


so intricate that it could only be

marble or flesh.  Perfection


in stone that can weather

the years, instead of breaking after


so many miles of minutes.

Dante’s Map of Hell: City of Dis (or What Happened One Night Next to Whippy Dip)


for Dani

There’s a quiet hell under some

hats.  It’s not one of Inferno’s


and there is no divinity there.  People forgot

that God is just an extension of them-


selves, so have fractioned off into various

forms of inept life.   The comedy is that


there is nothing but tragedy because of voices


being silenced.  In order to live one must learn

coping mechanisms.  She opens her eyes from yet another


sleepless night that she pretends to have soundly

slept through.  Truth is she hasn’t been able to


sleep for years without being drugged

somehow or she’s dragged by some memory


she has committed to forget.  She preferred the ones that quieted


the sound of her pulse.  Out of that heart of hers

so badly beaten because of laws named by some


Murphy fellow, a rush of words holding on to some


fragment of time, which may have,

~at one point, soothed her

but now find themselves being nasty sirens


haunting the night.  It’s living next


to the hospital across the street


from a coke bar named Antigua Blue.  One night,

a stabbed, bleeding man came pounding, pounding,


pounding, pounding terror on her front door, the blue


neon painting their faces green. While he covered her

~body in his life, she had to hold

~herself up. Her young boy sleeps


soundly in the room directly behind the doorknob

holding her up as he drifted completely


away from his wounded body.