there is something
nourishing in cafeteria clam chowder.
a deep spice in your belly
to fill up the empty feeling one gets
curled up to a cold back.
rushing home to find an empty,
carefully made bed.

why fall in love?

a new boy means i am writing
poetry, again.

tonight:
no lemon slice moon,
no searchlight of white.
a black cradle for black bodies.

cylindrical wax, it’s all cyclical –

mike brown, eric garner,
freddie gray,
meagan hockaday

– across the street
white boy shreds black asphalt,

a sloppy chorus of happy birthday
spills like their foamy pints
over brown tables and black eulogies.

those pale faces, those pale fingers,
preoccupied more with the bubbling
and the stretch of their pizza cheese.

look up from your porcelain plates.
hear our rage bubbling,
see communities stretched translucent.

there is blood on your hands
and guilt to your name.

I.
In my hand, a
boreal owl has died -
Waiting for the spirit to
pass.

The softness of her feathers,
the beauty of this other form
of life. I look
closely.

White and perfect.


II.
Shelter. It sounds so handsome.
Comforting, (real), true -
and yet it is a little wall between a
person and all the rest.
So little there.

The fragility of crystal after crystal can
be my killer.

One small thing plus another equals
a power greater than any shelter humans can
build.


III.
Without electricity.
I am surrounded

by comfort. All of a piece -
myself and the world. Close to
one another.

Boundaries are gone.
Distance has changed.
The rock above are closer

than before. The trees in the
moonlight, the horses so close
I can see the ghost of

their breath.

In my kitten's dream
No need a December rain
I called her— she came

I write
because I have eagles
and sea gulls inside my head
flying  
hovering above
falling and ascending
swooping and fluttering
rushing and loitering
darting and circling
At one moment  
they're dipping into the deep
iron red of Grand Canyon
searching for
green and yellow hues
and brown, pink, and gray
At another moment
they're above Pacific Ocean
becoming kings and queens
instantly, of blue skies
and endless space
How free and playful they are
Birds are everywhere
Bright colors
Careless songs
Bursting energy
They're magical
They're electrical
They're whimsical....
I write
because
I have those birds inside
my head to catch

I am no Wendy;
but my voice brings you back to me.
And you sit around my feet,
anxious for a story
or a kiss.
Listening to my words
spinning adventures,
like so much golden thread;
spellbound by my gentle whisper.
You are welcome to stay,
through spring rain
and autumn crisping,
though you still search
for someone with soft hands
and bountiful breast.
And when my gracious gifts spill over
from my full-grown lap,
you scoop them up with wondrous hands
and all the hunger
of a Lost Boy

A crooked frame of a picture perfect family
Hangs in the hallway
With the eyes cut out
To imitate the blindness of suburbia
The family dog remains in the frame
To tell the tales of an animal
Caged in a four sided box
And the frame itself is a darkened oak
With each side representing a member
To show the strength of family
And the dark times that cover them all.