Viola of Bone

Failing once is never

enough, for the tattooed mile


markers of Paradise Lost etched bloody

on your dominant arm are merely


the finely tuned craftsmanship of catgut

constantly failing.  Can there be a grander


aesthetic of complete failings?  Clutch the ground

as if it could save you.  Dust is not


necessarily interested in ballads sounding

in a metronome of broken things.  The glory

~~~~~~~~~of suffering

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~is constant self-deconstruction.


Man Between Excess and Deficiencies

You do not do, you do not do…

Daddy, I have had to kill you.

~Sylvia Plath



Ugly truths beat heels in boots

to the ground.  Forget the sound of her


breath in your own entrapment.  Crouched

down with your burden, now your daughter


suddenly seems intent on flaunting explicable

moods. Too much life is happening.  I’m just an insect


you crush with your traumatic

withheld words. Daddy, did you


do it? Do you even know

what you’ve done?  Soldier boy,


you made a killer of your daughter. Look

at the wings I traded you for: flowing white plumage


flaring through the brimstone, the stink of flame from this

life you abandoned me to.  In the mirror of dead faces, of silent


voices, the makeshift patriot can watch the girl

he once strapped with raw hide, hide her


heart under the steel of her left foot.  The only weapon

she has inherited for protection from the decay


climbing up choking like a weed is the ink

pen held by her south paw.  For you, her words


sting of the brutality of the fact

you are dead to her.