I woke suddenly
in the night,
the dawn
threatening her arrival
in a brilliant
watercolor doom.
Legend says
that a sleepless night
such as this
is the result
of your presence
in another’s dream
world.
Are you dreaming of me?
You know
I would endure
a wide-eyed dawn
just to touch
your skin
in a realm
of your mind’s creation.

The witches and waitresses
of the Appalachians
follow only one
God.
I have seen her on occasion
carving midnight embers
from her spine
illuminating a divine magic
found only
in the season
of the Gemini.
She hunts by moonlight
chasing the sweetest
perfume of the mountains
indulging in the whims
of the lilacs.
In my dreams
she spins
with the moon
dancing circles
‘round my room.
The dirt of which woman
is made
will be sifted
in the hands
of the Appalachian
Woman God.
And in my sleep
I witness
the creation
of Wild Woman -
a divine prophet
setting the countryside
ablaze
in a rebellion
of foxfire.

Nothing is sweeter
than waking
to the silence
of snow
of the movements
your chest makes
before the closed-eye smile
stirs
the ancient Woman in me.
I crawl into your arms
like stepping
into the sunshine abyss
of my childhood
like conjuring
the music
of my sister’s laugh
like conjuring
the dead.
Some mornings
I wake
so full of love
that it takes all of my
strength
to keep my chest
from hallowing
my ribs from cracking.
At 6 a.m.
on a
snow-covered lawn
the revelation
of love
accompanies a cigarette
and cup of
watered-down coffee.
All of the words
you whisper
my porch cowboy
are stuck to me
on a morning
so unaware
of its own
beauty.

On a particularly dry morning
I Google “creative writing prompts.”
“What are you eating for breakfast?”
“Have you ever dreamt
of being blasted off to outer space?”
“Have you ever encountered
a speed ******
in a Walmart parking lot?”
“Imagine you are a ghost
roaming the hallways
of the Cecil Hotel.”
“Have you ever looked at yourself
fully naked in the mirror
after a night of ugly debauchery?”
Never mind -
I suppose another love poem
wouldn’t hurt.

Somewhere in northern New Mexico
a writer claims
that the first two weeks
after a long hiatus
are the hardest.
After all,
scratching the words of the Gods
on to a loose leaf paper
must be arduous for those
out of practice.

I’d rather be an empire builder
a lonely artisan
in the deserts outside
of Las Cruces
with the sunshine on my back
chasing destiny down
a steep cliff of Mesquite
and milkweed
to Mexico City
where the children smile
in the streets
and then on to the Guadalupe Mountains
where I’ll feel
the loneliness of my dreams
and make my way back
to Small Town America
where I’ll sit on the front porch
and revel in
a much simpler destiny
as you walk through the front gate
to greet me.

Many have wondered
how those who do not worship
the dead
can find serenity
and a savior
in the inanimate
but I believe
that the remnants of passion
of earnest devotion
can be found
in the abandoned housing projects
on Detroit’s East Side
or on the wooden crosses
that line rustbelt interstates
the spirit of this land
and its people
can be found
in what they leave behind.