Spice Nomenclature

It presses hard upon me.  I let it press hard

upon me.  Questions reach so far they can never go

farther.  The heart burns from a sweet

agony.  Voice could save you.  The mind

moves in strange directions.  It’s not linear.  Massing speeds

that cannot be calculated, it is by will alone


I set my mind in motion


to mend all the broken bits of forgotten

ballads, stupid sestina’s…a sonata

with a number of movements in sound

missing a metronome.  A choice


spurring the need for new experiences is


perplexing.  Without change something sleeps inside

It draws something out of us,

like a deep down countdown allowing us to grow.


Butterflies Building Better


Failure teaches us life is nothing

more than a draft, she has learned to swim

like two fish always chasing

the other’s tail in Misery Bay.  It’s like a mural

on the side of a decaying building trying to breathe

life into the waning city with the dwindling culture


climbing up all around the old neighborhood as an invasive

new species of weeds, just as it has in the old country


warring over its own name.  It seems the race

called human—all the variations of flesh which come

along with the word myself—has forgotten how


much like snowflakes they are. Blowing lake effect

gusts of bitter biting cold drives snow too heavy to see

a single flake adheres to the painted traditions on all

the buildings making it impossible to distinguish which ones

were crafted with love and tradition,

and which ones are to be demolished on the shores of the sick

and hypodermic infested Great Lake Erie.

#12. The Savior Is Gone

Out of history completely, because She is

just another beast to exploit

to extinction.  The Gods care nothing for anything

grounded in impermanence grounded in dust, holding

the form of millions of atoms.  Even Artimes

has discarded every engorged breast scaling her

body, because modern medicine offered to make sure

she was healthy and they took her uterus instead.  She might be


the only God with a clue of what suffering truly is.  Her uncle Hades

had not known real suffering having reveled in the dark

his possession of fire.  There is so much good human imagery cast

by candles on the wall, some even urging in the dark the understanding

feeling of home is as close as the hand to pen.  Poseidon starts seeing his Giant

Oar fish washing up on shores where they should not

~~~~~~~be. Dead, his terrifying deepest water darlings dead.

#8 Currently Untitled

Waving a glint reflection in the unnamed color

in Her iris, they call me Jezebel in the Age of Interwebs.  I am

the one                        here for dogs,                         for Untouchables. 

                                                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~I am from

all the traditions and not a part of any.  I’m the ache

in the dawn eager to meet its day

transforming every aware person to a conduit of thought

and compulsion, until the dogs come for me. Poseidon

knew that he was facing a pure loving creature tortured


by the dying animal tied to her every

word like a string keeping her from sleep.  It was more

than he could take in among the sound of personal,

handheld devices.  The harder he looked for her

~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~          in the buzzer ringtones, the faster

her image dissolved into the pollution of waves.  Sound

radiating radioactive glow.  A deleted image. The broken link.

So It Was, So It Goes

Because of stories written in verse, he can’t

recognize his maker.  She was not going to tell him,

because it should’ve been obvious even Cronos was

invented by the signs and symbols she’s mastered.  Every line

trailing off in verse makes its own God, and too many

forget whose hand penned it.  Poseidon grimaced at

the thought of being nothing more than an arbitrarily ascribed

string of Words that She just scratches on scrolls.  I may be tied to


a dying animal, unlike you, but I wrote the Books

which withstand the pounding sands and cutting

waters.  This is all fluid.  My pen controls your

current.  The oceans swelled to the moon which was

instructed to deny any embrace with Poseidon’s

temper.  She floated away as a monsoon swallowed her slight form.

Otherwise Known as the Dark Ages (5th Sonnet in Heroic Crown)

There is infinite meaning because a finite myth
just can’t understand. Her body floats from hour
glasses adding up meditation while sitting as a flower
that has grown, despite brackish waters, out of shit
humanity vomits on her nymph-ish form. Her voice
hung low in vibration, sounding to human ears as a sultry
hiss, Poseidon, you know I shall never materialize,
unless willed into existence. Speechless, he

just watches. Imagine, a God who can’t even paint to soak in
the magenta of shadows longing and she even gives him
the words. That’s why She refuses to be a God, she likes her
humanity during the Age of Humanity Forgetting Itself. She knows
she has to save herself. Poseidon doesn’t remember he only exists
because of stories written in verse, he can’t even recognize his maker.

The Great Forgetting

For finding comfort in everything you can think of

the Gods have to be held accountable.  This is the time

for need bare humanity. The Great Forgetting is taking

a toll on our children, losing the young in dramatic

numbers.  Because beauty demands sacrifice, the God’s

have led us to believe they are what control

the beautiful.  Human kind is too daft to deal with

realities, so they can’t see the beauty that made you, that


beauty that made me.  It makes us something which is better

than nothing.  On a meteor of isolation, floating through waves

in hertz bouncing vibration of a single heart pounding

in magenta. She sits alone without moving her lips.  Her marble

skin made Moonshine with stardust sparkle.  The Earth beneath her

left a map of the geosystem of the neurons in her nervous system.