When a God is Born


It comes from an ineffable

longing, a desire for knowing,

and an intent

listening to make any sense of this.

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Confessions With a Stamped Coin


After we made love last

night, I woke up, you

in India, making love to someone

else.  An extravagant

belly-dancer, her body

majestic as the sequoias.

Not like mine.  Her belly was

made of sapphire & silk.  Mine is

like the women in the exercise videos

you asked if I watched,

one night.  I told

you I didn’t dance

anymore– I never sculpt

my body.  The belly-dance

entranced you, the romantic

swing of her hips.  She wrapped her

lotus flower hands

around where you feel.

I remember the Russian

spy I made love to.  He gave me

secrets while my pen etched

his name on an exposed portion

of my skin.  The ink washed away.

He never stayed long. Touching

your skin is nice. He would say.

I would spread out the sheet

with his hands guiding mine to

smooth over the wrinkles.

You must have been in love


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Grandmother’s Wisdom


Grandma visited one night

while she was dying.  Her body was

nothing.  Her eyes had not been

open in weeks.  She smoked too

many Viceroys while drinking

too much coffee.  That was

how she killed herself.  When she spoke

then, she said a silence. Explained

only as a ball of yarn when secured will

bounce.  If it’s not secured, it’ll

unravel, leaving a mess of knots.

Gram didn’t know how to knit.  Her

only craft was marking playing cards.

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The Fine Line of Beautiful Living


Walk out past the stacks, rows, aisles

of books, where memoirs of battles slowly gave way

to case histories of molestation and abuse.

—Larry Levis

Your grandest gestures remain

unnoticed.  You have

a hand which can part oceans,

but cannot save you from the desires

of men. Girl, you are to be useful

in moist ways.  They care nothing for

the goings on in that mind of yours.

Don’t even try to talk.  Unless

to advertise for sex or violence.

There is no God.  You are all

that you have, & that body may be able

to find you some bread to break.  You can

always obtain wine to drink.  You have

the right frame for that.  They like you

intoxicated.  Under their weight,

you imagine Kafka, become the Hunger

Artist.  Hungry to find any meaning

to the needless sufferings you are

so gifted to witness.  No man cares about

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Why Lovely is a Bad Word


You are not like

the stories in their heads.

Mothered by

a prostitute nun, you are here

to prop up for loving pills.

The ones that make her

nice–so very nice–and

non-responsive.  When some noticed,

you were already a victim, but you will not

play the part.  They know what

they did.  Choose not to think about it. You

were sent to the reformatory. Now

you are a woman.  They say

you’re lovely.  Having seen some

terrible shit.

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Reading the Space of Breathing


Here the lines lay claim as the choreographed
touching of each other. Phonetics of movement

sounding in chest cavities, while no one is in the room
with your tender myths of flesh: the existence

of poetry. A creature prone to indiscretions
is the Possessed by Poesies. In the convergent and divergent

landscape of context, a life trembles there waiting
as the space of sub-context.

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It Is Dark so I Made Me a Torch


for Yuyu

The Nepalese man told me kindly

to burn down my house, with an open


invitation to write poetry

in the Himalayas.  We could watch flowers grow

out to ice capped mountains in the sparkling

brilliance of  sunrise.  I giggled in a whisper,


It started smoldering

last night.  It smelled of sage and Nag Champa.


The air tasted of truffles.

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