Change Come to Kingdom Come

What if you noticed every

day that I am a little closer


to over?  What if you looked

at me, instead of past my flesh


as if I were just a ghost of a person

you once knew?  What if you saw


how authentic the maps of neurotransmitters

in my head are?  Would you, could you care?  There’s none


but ourselves facing each breath

till the last.  I am dissatisfied with these things


I see.  After speaking, Mama folds

herself into an origami crane leaving all the Gods


to question their own existence.

Swells of Juices

Her heart was                                      a pomegranate.  The seeds

picked out one                                    by one to be



devoured.  In her                                 chest a birdcage with the clipped

wings of a crushed angel.  Here         they will stay

locked safe and sound


from the horrors                                 this earth offers.

Should Have Stayed Forgotten

I just remembered the smell of the boiler

room and the gray which would fill me

every time he took my hand guiding his zipper

down.  My hand so small

next to his big scary appendages.

Everyone knows the Glory Box

I always carry my box of broken bits

~~~~~~~~~~~with me deep, trembling  inside

my own glory-hole, black hole, rabbit hole


where sensations send trembles cylindrical

flushing down spines arched in your ecstatic breath.

This is Water, This is Woman, This is Nameless

She stands single legged, left

foot firmly planted on a floating


comet somewhere between

the stars and the mind: a statue of herself.  Her back


arched like a great orb of oblivion with her right

foot gently resting


on the back of her head.  He stares.  Her image too human

to be God, but not human at all.  As his gaze adjusts around


the angles and geometry of her skin—smooth but still reptilian

in nature.  A woman chameleon who gives voice to the voiceless


without tonguing sound radiates from the delicate

form of a wasted waif angel with clipped wings


in waves of hertz.    Poseidon knows nothing

of the likes of this creature who creates the myths of God’s. He hears her


colors drip, drip, drip down the canvas of some iconic painting

down the drywall of a decaying building.  This isn’t just other worldly


shit, it’s tangible, real.  “You know I wrote the Word of all of you Gods

into existence.  I don’t avert my eyes from real


things I see.  You have taken too much life, so I’m here to give it back

to Man-kind.”  Her grey, blue, green, outline of iris fills with salt


from all of the oceans on Earth to weep life back into existence

starting with a single molecule of fresh clean water.

Mother: maker of myth.

Tied With the Words Still Falling from the Lip

Everything you can think of is true.

Tom Waits



She floats through flower graves, saying

to Poseidon, “I’m a fish born year of the horse,

you may want to see your stallion in me—how the legs

would thrust, and thrust, and thrust pleases

the God of most of the planet,


I was put in the belly of a steed where I turned

opal there,  I swallowed my own pearl of goodness

so it calcifies with my strength.”  A great shower came

down at the faintest scent of that female flower dying



daily, even right now, she slips out of grasp, just as he has

the answer before all the questioning starts clouding the air around.