I live underground—
with fiendish hands
that reach through
the dirt and mass,
grasping at a sound.

To their mile-wide gaze
of white wall eyes,
my lungs collapse,
crumble and fold—
taken in and out of sight.

Through earthly glass,
I am a broken con artist.
My cries, a faux pas,
my skin off-brand,
while somewhere
a heart beats, embodied.

Amidst
this push-pull throng,
a long goodbye speaks
to dead space,
bearing dead weight
down on the world—

Commodify my breath.
Call me sanctioned off.
Ship me to the doorstep
of a funeral home,
where I can be buried again
in my fever-hot coffin.
One would call it a soul,
forever dropping in—
from the other side.

there is magic in a steaming cup
in seeing with sick eyes
through the white morning

A woman who moves in silence
Her face softened by the distance

She carries a life
not numbered
a beating heart for two
so big the walls bend around her
as if to say
“nevermind the others”

The old lady caught up to me
fell asleep forgotten and woke up free
in the magpie madness
cobblestone cradle race

god called me today
with a mouthful of autumn leaves
spider fingers nesting at my navel
I hear her heartstrings
plucking out a buried song
in the last longing lookback
of seasonal surrender

fear winding upward it
speaks of gusted nests.
a tap tap tap-
at one window
the timeless
tick vex stick

chicken skinteeth
curling up your spine

the glass hilt of another
ice cold slap
or heat-ironed patch
to soothe the eye

Glowing Friend-
I worship.
My new religion screen

keep it in a
knot running
stitch by stitch
bound up
scrapbook
tell the need of longing

I listened to the Rasta,
the Monk
and the Buddha
I listen to Christ
and all his Angel's
I listen to the voice
of the Anima,
her glistening beauty

The elemental wisdom of the Natives,
I hear
and those from the past,
settlers,
the sailors
the children

To the teachers,
of materialist
literature

I listen to the music,
the air
and the trees

The gentle whispers of the creek,
and a blaring car alarm

Voices are plenty, and the only truth
is all
all of them, and all as one
some simple reality
behind the veil
of the many

I am the eye on your shelf
I am the scratches of ink
that rip through unbarred arenas-
when sunken bones and unburied prints
amass a clump of
galloping words
tracing measured tracks
of battles forlorn

Hence my history beckons and the
leather straps like tires
machinal; my life
reduced to rubble burn-marks
in a book that
made you look
without a care
for where-
to put it.

another whisper in the wind which once
carried its conquered careful balance
Now sits still as a spineless paperweight
propped up by the heap of dust
in your periphery

Tapestry colored,
take the tick out of my heart and let me bleed out.
My eyes are shallow wells for a face that needs help.

                   A body that sees no reason

                                 taken back
                                 tied down
                              tucked under

                   A b-b-b-bomb blasting off

                                   seconds

                    before the big hand could

                  cover her own clocked head.
                                  
Here no mantle is sacred.
ripples in our veil unfolding
each crease, streak and stain seals a moment:
Her love suppressed and Her faded light
the fabric of one life,
the symbol of many,
measured against the steps of
indefinite epitomes.