a possum is smoking a cigarette on
top of a small barn in the field.

inside the barn, a mama births
a batch of baby sheepdogs
their eyes still caked shut--
a world awaits.

as the possum finishes his last drag,
i watch the trees in the yard
get up & walk away.

i have never felt more at home,
instantly welcomed, loved by strangers,
sleeping with the trees,
i shower with a sister under the sun
& we tiptoe our way to the lake,
feel the softest sand,
because we want to stay naked,
let the heat warm our skin
after months of piling on layers,
icing ourselves like a cake of cotton.

there is something innate & essential
to be free in the woods:
the two of us started the movement,
now a crowd of **** brothers & sisters
tread banks of sand & fallen pollen.
Pops comes around the bend with his canoe,
takes us to the dock in the middle of the lake.
Pops, with his sunburnt skin of muscles and tales
names me goddess of the lake.
all of us hold a bit of the net
to catch fish through the hole at the dock.
we laugh because
this is how we are meant to be.

driving south
to see trees in bloom
after a night of sleeping in the snow
& letting the hail beat up your face,
i can imagine is like
seeing color for the first time.

i am the new wick of a candle--
turned on by spring sun,
hot,
the light shows the beauty in strangers
like red-haired, shirtless Steven
whose eyes graced me with
the radiance of sunlit olive,
a shade i have never dreamed before:
gold & green globs twist in circles
in his irises, like magic

no wonder warm blood of new loves
is harvested in this season.

at the pink rock on the parkway,
i saw a collared corgi get lost,
enamored with strangers.
cannabis clouds coagulate
the air to power young hikers.
i spy front seat fever
in the car next to mine,
heads disappear
into the laps of their lovers.

for me, it is these woods,
the nurturing ways of the willows,
the numbing wind of unspoiled silence
by the glasshouse over the lake.

the bloom of new cycles
in the ancient--
what was always there,
like lovers that are always within,
part of you.
dogwoods crack open
to let us come together in a forested space
where all trails lead to treehouses.

this is my spring love,
this is bliss.

a mid-spring winter

right now there is a battle in the sky--
a dichotomy of hemispheres, a broken
line splits the two:

one is the smoke of an impending storm,
strong whistles slide through the maze of bamboo stalks
they are forced to samba back & forth, all
the windchimes are struck like tambourines,
and with growing roars from the chicken coop,
the music of the moment
is an unrehearsed orchestra on speed.
the doors on the porch swing wildly,
touched by armies of ghosts, & each creak in the
bamboo treehut declares itself, all is graced with
new kinds of movement.

the other half of sky is peaceful, silent
what’s left of the glow peaks through turquoise sheets,
until it is ****** by the black hole of gust.

the storm brings such a beautiful haunting to the sanctuary.

phantoms

the evening when I lay
for a nap until midnight,
left the house lights blazing,
all doors cracked open
as my tabby-cat chews
on the ends of my hair
on my bed.

midnight comes & goes with ease,
the cycle of my saliva waterfalls
begins, making art
on the pillowcase,
my breath deepens with moonrise.

yet as the hour enters the darkest point of night
the lights in the hall panic--the start of a seizure:
they dance on & off with indecision.
there is no one else in my home
but these atoms tug my chest
in-between slumber & light,
half-cracked eyes
& a heart of speed,
i levitate
to meet the spirit
face-to-face
hers, the vintage frame of a Lichtenstein
in shadows,
her floating face
is a talking head
but i can’t hear a word
from the mouth in motion,
not even a whisper.

i respect her presence
but squeeze my eyelids & turn over
into a scared sleep.
i want to know
what she had to say
i want to purge the darkness
that makes spurs my pulse
in the presence of phantoms.




Pt. II


i felt them again in the hummingbird room,
with it thick window that shows the swaying
shagbark branches winding up for a fight,
and the high window that lets me peak
at the waxing gibbous,
when the clouds let us see her.

spirits came in through computer screens
in the invisible attic
but the Lightweaver
sent them away.

messages from the mountain sanctuary

the scariest image i can think up:
rows & rows of rooms without windows.

the scariest thought:
placing your mind in the future.
when you can’t
see the dancing loblollies outside those windows,
taste the skin of your newest lover,
smell the burning cedar in the ancient
potbelly stove that heats the whole house.

let go of everything
to begin to breathe bliss,
turn your body into an empty mug,
you will be full of
the sweet brew of
this moment.

What desire was teased
that morning, the pairing
of backaches & amphetamines
left me rocking under sweaty sheets
wide-eyed, the numbers on the clock
passed the Devil’s hour to your time.
You call on me as magpies call each other
after sunrise.

What desire was teased
that drove my frail, bleeding body
with its bloodshot eyes
onto the roads,
passing yards of pacing possums
to your ****** Lake home.

What desire brought a comfortable
smile to my lips as I watched you
pour Bud Light in wine glasses
and call yourself fancy?

The chrome half-moons
under your eyes grow darker,
layered, like nightfall.
The wrinkles on your
forehead are drawn on now,
lucid, in the unwelcome light
that graces through these
basement windows.

You beckon me to the bathroom
where fresh snow awaits.

I wonder why I follow you,
watch you take in too much--
clear the snow from the countertop,
then we attack each other,
we are leopards
on your red velvet couch
only for a minute--
your heavy eyes close
your body gives a final shrug.
I carry the old man to bed,
place cold water on his lips
and lay with him,
pretending to sleep as
his bones rest on my soft skin.

A sad danger always lingers behind callithumpian ways,
[my maternal instinct needs a new outlet.]

i skim the cautionary sign on the wall,
trace the worn, beige corners
of stained, manmade words
with the paint-stained pads
of my fingertips.

the words remind me of how
we want to imprint everything--
silent objects, the cold copper posts
on roadends
they tell you not to question
the autonomous compass
that borrows
inside the souls
of your feet.

who writes the manuscripts for walls?
the dramatic monologues of inanimate objects
my walls of celery speak for themselves:
*this house is powered by tacos.

seductive decay

on summer days we
rode down the river in our ripe age,
careless if the rapids swept us
into their deadly dustpans,
the black hole of water,
the possibility aroused us,
perhaps because it seemed so far away.

and next to the river,
the appalachian townsfolk wandered the deep grass, they
gathered here to see the circling folding-tables,
buy the spread of goods,
the goods are masks.
the masks are of old folks’ faces,
cartoon-like, goofy comic characters in the funny pages.
masks of rubbered wrinkles, permanent,
bulging eyes, whiskered ears that never stop growing, with
an elastic band, you can become an elder.

old age attracts the crowds,
i have a fascination with it myself,
picturing all the stories that have
taken elders to the present,
it’s hard to fake being wise
when you’re forced to think for years.

nightmare

in evening suburbia,
a ****-stained moon huddles overhead like a cautious mother
to guide rows & rows of carbon copy homes.
the moon’s glare stains the sky unsettling hues,
the air is like a blanket of bristles.

i am on the street, dry calloused soles
brush chrome cement.
i let my ponytail fall free, and feel hidden, pounding
streams of eyes, i’m uneasy like the moon.

as i pass an empty lot, the lot that is animated
with a rainbow of ripe fruits
on Saturday’s market, now grey and aching.
a soft murmur grows, closer,
i half-expect a wild fox to pass by,
but see Ania’s forested Suburu swarm
in to scoop me, her window lowers and i see her eyes,
held wide with fear settled in the irises, as if piranhas are secretly
gnawing her legs there, its not funny.
come quick, she squeals at me as I jump inside
onto the milky mildew upholstery, she
never stops driving,
(omit?: we are escaping some sort of madness.)

back on the street, a man expands, shapes
into a monstrous teradacytl like an Anamorphics novel
he chases us, I feel his pull from behind,
inside a dark matter,
as he rides atop a pickup truck and I am
latched to the back of the Suburu, surrendering.
the beast sprays this magical mist that
makes me feel like melting, like after a hit of a heavy ******,
that sweet, dark, ethereal pull,
like a lovestruck teen on an apathy ride,
i become a useless solider.

the next scene happens in the kitchen of an uninfected family,
their pink lips warn us of grandmothers that wander into homes
with five-dollar bills, they ask you to take them to the theater--
but if you even gently caress the bill, they will become monstrous,
their white hair dissipating into scaly skin, the demonic eyes
won’t leave your memory.


they are innocent masks, similar to the stray streetcats
who shift shapes, turn
to bloodthirsty pedestrians.

perhaps suburban ***** birth tiny monsters:
the after-effects of the danger, the distortion of
finding comfort in apathy.

renderings of love on a tuesday:

“the overall effect, the result of looking and looking into its brimming surface as long as I could look, is love, by which I mean a sense of tenderness toward experience, of being held within an intimacy with the things of the world”-mark doty

“love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within”-james baldwin

“my notion of love…is very closely related to the blues. there’s always somebody leaving somebody, and there’s never any vengeance, any bitterness…”-toni morrison


service without limits,
unforeseen respect

reaching in to seize my heart from my chest
handing it over to my daughter, sophia
absorbed through soft, gentle palms ‘til her womb plays the role of God,
and molds a new heart to this earth, births a new love

the picture of tangled, honeyed thighs,
skin crinkled and peppered with spots made of stories
soft cackles singing in an otherwise quiet room
they never will grow mold.

The Fall in Eden

I found Eden after treading water in the middle of a stream,
alone far, from my home,
Above me, unfamiliar willows frame the way, I almost
swam to the land, I almost
didn’t cross the rapids,
the high rapids that grooved at a lazy river’s pace, someone
painted the water a pale cerulean blue
with white foam trapped in slow circles
after the fall, like soda fizz or gurgled mouthwash
stranded in a washing machine.

On the other side of the rock drop,
a vast sea of still water waited for me,
with calm bodies of people celebrating the blue,
their arms dancing, their laughter silenced by the fall.
all our eyes ascended to see the mystic monster
who towered us by hundreds of feet,
with every inhale, a new stream was born.
its mist softened my skin as it touched my face,
the sun behind it gave golden light
to this hidden, hypnotizing bath
the bath that could wash away my thoughts.

I drink the blue and it is the first sip after a night of heavy drinking,
after that moment when you spot the top of the Sam’s **** after the climb,
after a fast dance with a new stranger,  
communion.

If I could go back to this place of wet wonder,
I would do anything just to die.

aesthetics

by the Pigeon River in Tennessee,
we pass the day wading in the water in blowup tubes
we are snakes who creep inside kayaks of foreigners
who paddle backwards, already wobbling back and forth, just
asking to be pushed.

in the night our bodies turn, our minds enter their fantastical realm
of distant narratives in our small wooden rooms
with creaky doors, walls with bold purple paint, once
with a putrid air of a dead rodent disguised as a bag of
rotten potatoes that summoned the love interest, aroused
pools of fast squealing maggots-- such
a delicious cleanup that was.

while we ride the river in our ripe age,
county people gather in our yard.
they came to view the spread, the looping tables
that hold masks, masks of old faces
like those elder cartoons in the funny pages,
their rubbered wrinkles and elastic earbands attract the crowds
who desire, who urge to look old
just to mask the appearance of being wise.

hops on the other side of the barbed wire
seizes the girl’s sad stare
         the girl who is watched by her mother
           dressed by her mother
           taught what to say by the mother
who stands thirty yards behind, in the empty field of sand
in a cherry-print dress, her black eyes scrunched like a squeeze-ball.

in the afternoon heat,
the kind of heat that makes a breath a marathon
the girl will stay with fists clamping the fence
with all the strength hidden behind her skeletal frame.
and she will wonder why
a feathered bird will travel farther than she.

In the Kitchen

We have conditioned our housewives for destruction.
Go back a half-century to the years
when we ****** them into too-tight aprons
made them short of breath just to show
the peach curves of their bodies,
We only saw them as luscious fruit
covered in black, black lace.

Consider the vicious clawing required
to grate the aged cheddar into thin slits
the hard grip around the edge of your fork
when you stab straight into the sweet potato
over & over again.
the crazed knife dance right into
the heart, the bulb of the onion,
the juice, the blood from the lamb chops
splattering all over the kitchen floor.

They are an army in training.
Listen as they sharpen their knives, the sound dark & sweet.
Where are they going?

Cave Games

When we sit at the long picnic tables,
twenty of us in the ocean by the cave,
rowdy with our drinking, we fling cups in
rotation, throwing them high and low and
our **** beer floats to ***** the water and Clay
beside me wears his puffy winter coat, he
helps me tie my hiking boots, bunny ears
style, awkward ****** thoughts in our heads
we touch thighs and lose balance, lose the game
and tumble off the bench into the shallow water
beside the Mediterranean cave where Cyclops
sits and laughs at us for being so blind.

Formula to Soul-Saving


Never forget to poke holes in potatoes
(it’s the only excuse for violent stabs)
Change the way you walk, often
(so even Google Earth can’t track you down)
Wear a loose tie on your neck on Sundays
(a fancy demeanor is a powersuit)  
Smooth-talk your doc into a scrip for opiates
(anxiety is a trending fad)
Be ready to respond to the existential questions
(have three answers, rotate appropriately) (hint: the best answer notes that the end point is not the goal. stay in point A and chart the graph of your laughter).

View from the Streetcar


[[[Come with me to the pow-wow tonight:
we will make toasts with neon shots of jello
in the Medicine Wheel circle.
we will speak in tongues & 0’s & 1’s.
the mixed hues of our skins, the mixed geometries of our bodies,
the mixed dilations of our pupils come together & nod in council
that we should take more time caring for our horses
for they will never let us down.]]]

On my way to the gaudy theme park, alone in the streetcar
I remembered how I left my mother without reason,
the aftertaste of emptiness that comes when leaving on impulse with
instant regret lingered inside me; my ego was miles ahead.

Yet I remember looking through the window,
looking into a forest where bright hammocks hung on trees
abundantly-- canopies filled with hard-covered books.
No people in sight, the books reined the woods,
hanging still like sloths waiting to be pried into.
I remember thinking that was enough
to bring flavor back to my throat.

“all dreams are relevant in varying degrees to the life of the dreamer…they are all parts of one great web”--from man and his symbols by carl jung


the blackhole parking lot

the pool table at the bar



the despised dentist chair


the airplane that frequents underground tunnels

or the ocean with its killer whales.


you pick up the spike that sits in the lot at the gas station
to save us from the unspoken crash.


you handle the wolf spider of pure snow
climbing your thigh in awe.


you gaze wide-eyed as
the dentist tortures your teeth with pliers.


                you stand by the shore as the whale vacuums    your brother up like a dust bunny.

you transform the plane into a dive bar so
passengers don’t notice when you go down.


you watch the first bite in the cherry tomato:
the teeth settle into the plump yellow flesh
fangs puncture the skin & seeds become flees--
you watch it again & again, in slow motion, on repeat.




you walk down the aisles in the grocery store
under florescent lights, the canned goods explode
as you pass, a blackbean rain, no one cares.
but the ladies in line for blackberry pie
squeal when you forget to take a number in line.


and the partner that just dumped you says
he didn’t mean it when you agree to a date and
look down to see you’re wearing your pink fuzzy bathrobe.


share the closed-eye visions,
the untold stories stick to the web
of the collective subconscious.

Apocalypse Dreams


Pt. I

a handful of unknown faces--familiar strangers--mixed
with recent visitors of my flat
(like the faerie friend with the voice of a man, the proud & queer
Ms. Bobo-Dancy herself, who taught me how
to glitter everyone in the dance hall)
come together to swim.

we tread water in canals, naked along
the European street whose frames are
pastel towers, elaborate easter-egg homes.
untouched elation sits in our chests,
a rare, extraordinary *****.

our legs tango in cyclic waves,
we do the dead fish float in the rising water.
when we relax our eyelids, our bodies are carried
right to a high school gymnasium.

the dance continues, takes our legs
down the stairs, we duck against
descending ceilings, to reach the blue mats in the basement
where we stretch our limbs fully, infinitely--
(until gravity bickers).

the blonde lady in front instructs the flow--
until
Sirens shriek in routine breaths
(the alarm we prepared to disregard in school drills
presents itself).

***** smoke rushes down the stairs to play tag,
my eyes dash, but no doors,
all the fibers in my thighs work together to perform the sprint,
across the tiled floor, up the crowded stairs

but flames rule the spiral staircase
i **** in air, hold it, as i rush against the cloud of grey, the block.
fellow stretchers surround me, but i reach the door right in time,

I look back. I am Lot’s wife.
Against my will, I look back.
I watch the orange killer strike--
In one motion, he absorbs the school
The girls behind me on the stairs
become walking bodies of fire.

Pt. 2

Tonight we are at the ocean,
the boy from Budapest, my father, & I.

We stand with toes on the shore
as waves gently turn in with the aid of the Moon.

It is winter, yet the ocean is bathwater
under Midnight’s sky, under the rickety boardwalk,
We push off into the deep water.

The boy points at the scarlet seahorse latched on my arm like a tattoo,
Through the clear water, a stingray sways, spots my legs, &
chases me back to the sand,
my heartbeat runs faster than my feet.

Back on the sand that starts to growl,
quiver, faster, and
the Earth hiccups, an awkward sonic thunder,
then it vomits up seawater, with much vigor,
--an epic volcanic belch--
only over the ocean,
I am untouched.

But the boardwalk,
It acts like a sewer
The water rushes through its pipes
I see one man on the walk,
a tall, dark-haired stranger with a top hat, suitcase, & a story
The water sweeps him up
and he drops straight down,
his bottom plops onto the shore
and his arms fall right off like a plastic doll with removable parts.

A smile strikes his face,
Is it the satisfaction of a future in disability funds?
The humor in being knocked down by random burps of the Earth?
The random vomits that take us with it.

His suitcase is out of sight, and
I am being transported to another new home,
with purple walls and a **** green carpet.

I am yawning at the apocalypse.




Pt. 3
August 1992, Miami


Off the highway ramp to Miami,
Clusters of cars perched as birds in the treetops

Like baby robins, some shimmied back and forth—preparing to fly
Telephone poles and oak trees did the tango ‘til they dropped

Like unwanted *****, they dispersed among the grass and streets
The twin palm trees from Carol’s backyard spilled into the in-ground pool

Her once-favorite spot—they will forever be swimming. The sun, the only
light in town, radiated in waves, darkness to light to darkness; the stench from

lack of running water permeated the air. Carol had phoned the bank earlier; her untouched safe deposit box was the reason for her trip. She parks her Buick

in the spot with the least ashes, and walks towards the bank, NCNB.
Its walls were scattered among the cement, the teller’s desks have vanished.

She eyes the security guard sitting (in uniform) in a grey folding chair near the entrance. “How may I help you, ma’am?” the words exit his lips as if it’s a normal

day at the bank. She tells him her business, and starts towards the back, but triggers the guard... “Enter the front door, ma’am!” Her feet guess where that used to be, start over,

She gathers her savings, leaves out “the door.” A sharp smile crosses the guard’s face.
How long will the it last?

The American Dream


When you
      climb the tower of the fun-house
      house-party, the tilted stairways
      the rooms full of beds.
Choose to
       duck behind the stage curtain
                    in the attic with your Patrick
       **** thick white lines up
                    your nose
        **** that you missed your shift
                    slept til ten in the night.

When you
       walk to the Russian bakery
                    take the 35 cent puff pastries
        from under the glass ceiling.
Choose to
       drown in body pleasure,
Earn          
                    your residency.

Meet Chuck: a sixty-or-so year old sweetheart, a retired chemist with   puppy-dog hazel eyes, the occasional mucus glob caked in their cracks



What he wants: the usual: a sweet tater, salad with thousand isle, warmed loaf of Portuguese bread, glass of water with a slice of lemon



What he actually wants:   someone who will listen.



Footnotes: get ready for this week’s stories of old travels, re-runs of grown kids’ work endeavors, and that one time he visited Chicago for some chemistry conference…


The spice: a lesson on removing professional masks of insincerity, or over-sincerity, as fake as the hanging plants in this place. a lesson on meeting mid-way to realize our chapters are not palimpsests, but offerings to the Book of the Universe, forever in composition.

Cars are now perched birds in treetops
who shimmy back and forth like dancers ready to fly
Phone poles & oak trees had a night out dancing, they
are now black-out girls that couldn’t hold their liquor at frat filth parties.

They are unwanted ***** scattered on dead grass and dim streets.
The twin palm trees from mom’s backyard are now divers in the pool.
The sun, the sole light source, now
radiates in waves, darkness to light to darkness, that stays.

The air is now a stench, rank like kitty litter from the not-quite running water.
My mom’s safe deposit box the only thing unchanged, untouched & standing.
She is now parking her Buick in the spot with the least ashes, & strolling towards
the bank. Its walls are now spread on cement as debris.
The teller’s desks are now ghosts.

She is eyeing the security guard who is sitting in a folding chair at the front.
He wears the same clothes as usual, asks the same question,
“How may I help you, ma’am?” the words exit his lips as if it’s any
day at the bank. She is now telling him her business, and as she starts towards the back, the guard is now trigged, “Enter through front door, ma’am!”

Her feet guess where the door once was, begin once more.
Mom is now collecting her savings, and leaving out “the door.”
A crescent moon now replaces the guard’s solemn mouth.
Is it better to be Don Quixote,
to find bliss through deviant imagination?

When they came to my island, the
hero and his crew (more like
an invasive species
of uninvited animals)
The rot from their unwashed feet spilled everywhere--
infestations of foul--
They plucked grapes from my vines slowly, with pride,
as if they kept them themselves,
They came into my cave and stole sheep’s milk and cheese--
The blessed feta: vanished!!
And you wonder why I snacked on two--I had nothing else!
They disregarded emptied wine bottles in clusters in the sand,
Kept me awake in the evening with boisterous, hoglike squeals.
And when I let out a scream myself,
A cry to my native land, to my father,
I spotted my herds scurrying from the cave,
with little hands floating atop their fur,
Then came the electrifying pain
I see a staff, feel the hit, become
disabled.
They took everything and left me blinded
And he is still the hero?
He told me he was Nobody.

on a sapphire lawn,
a glass vase of mushrooms
stands on its head.
a platter of crème custard naps,
while a bunch of grown
sunflowers tease us with their posture.

the moon is low, drunk, & stretching its borders,
over oval bushes, a little lorax hides behind them.
by the flower patch, a golden mushroom statue
is squinting. the black beam on his head sprouts tall,
arches, then dangles the celestial chandelier.

i am laying on the grass,
under the bubbled & weeping cerulean tree.
come and join me
for a dinner of daises.

I am sentenced to stay
in the pockets of your face.
No need to ask me if I agree
with your thoughts, for I know
you don’t consider me much,
as if I’m not laboring away,
flipping reality on its head,
creating the images that swim
through the cords of your memory.

You have taken me to
dark places: rooms with rank nebulas
of smoke, toilets in underground
bars caked with ****, bedrooms with
too many occupants…

I will sit and be sour,
in my God-given pocket.
You will stroke that raw pork
in your freezer, then stroke me,
unconsciously.

Sweet street lamp, you dwell to ***-
ide the left & right hemispheres of the fall tree’s
mind, your lone arm reaches out, fixed,
like one of an aspiring actor,
acting like a soup ladle; your light nourishes,
as the neighbors’ broth in the night.

Sweet street lamp, you craft shadows for
puppeteering in little Ann’s bed-
room, the Rorschach ray on her wall
does the Peter Pan, creeping in through the blinds,
manifesting a makeshift nightlight.

Above you, branches move in mazes:
All in the possibility of the dark.

The drive home--too soon--from the evening’s celebrations:
scattered street lights, golden hues moving in epileptic waves
the unconscious coast on the interstate
for you, the half-drunken dance with raw chicken giblets
which fell to a ***** floor, with a flying, broken peeler,
skins of butternut squash, my
confidence.
Four hours pass, I stay on the couch with my wine,
the cat, & fresh salt streams ‘til sleep arrives.
You left me to be
with a dead chicken.
Lonesome Saturday eve.

Four life-size lipsticks jive, they
groove in tune with costumed comrades:
the monstrous tapeworm, unfitting for even
a family of whales, head held high like
homemade dragons on Chinese New Year, or
the bald man decked out in navy felt, garb
saturated with plastic spoons he
needs to get laid.

But the lipsticks in their red, red heels, with
human eyeholes hidden behind fabric, which
shows the blend of castor & chemicals, what hue:
dark crimson or barracuda berry?

They wear but a fraction of the common ingredients
used for dressing up,
makeup as the encore.
It stains the lips,
the coffee rims around the country,
the chests of restricted lovers.
Let us celebrate the metaphor of makeup
on this festus day--where it’s excusable to act out
the fantasies of being not
ourselves.

A White-Rumped Snowfinch
(Montifringilla Taczanowskii to be precise)
from a fat mother,
from the peak of ****** Lake’s juniper tree,
where seeds arrive each night at supper
(the depression never struck our nest!)
and from a fine education--
I’ve learned my ways around this town,
I’ve learned the hedges where the crows cackle
By the school, on the mountain roads.

I seek a regular, weekend fling,
No titles, just feelings.
Preferably females two years or older,
Fellow finches or bluebirds will do.

Let us dine on seasoned larva,
Sunflowers from the Biltmore fields.
I will peck your cheek,
You shall return the favor gratefully.
Let us seize breeding season
Before the flocks flock southward.


You know where to find me.

I zip up my astronaut suit,
plop the cubed veil onto my head.

In my hat, I am the observer
Living behind the netted television.

Dressed for pain avoidance.  No tears.
(Perhaps I should wear this out on dates)

A tall metal teapot with its accordion attachment rests,
on guard, in my yellow stained gloves.

Together, we enter the boxed colony
The teapot’s steam spurts clusters of buzzers into the air—

I grab coarse honeycombs, drain the
visions of nectar.

When the day is over, I gather the jars,
amber sucrose, the ***-colored concoctions, to head inside.

In the kitchen, the timer aches to sing as the clouds
From the pumpkin loaves clog the room.

I hold my honey and I store my bread.

the unknown, aged bags of trash
scattered along the back porch

the untouched half-gallon of milk in the fridge
accompanied with only leftover salami

the crushed lines of espresso beans on the coffeetable
the crushed lines of    on the bathroom sink

the recycled excuses of grandma’s sunday dinners
on a tuesday

or the incessant trips to the hardware store,
how many lightbulbs need attendance each week?

i want to read the narratives of the thoughts
of someone enamored with distraction.

do they go anywhere?

These days, the unattended icebox
of Gaia’s daughter, Sky, flickers
on—
(a layer of cold crystals decorate the grass)
after her nightly
shade-shows:
turqouise to that cherry cotton-candy hue
to the mixed lavender & orange
like the Trix yogurt you used to eat at lunch.

When the color show is over
and the light returns,
Sky sighs—
Blonde powder does the flying tango.
It swims from the Ragweeds, small yellow
Tornados swarm the fields,
Dance above the rivers,
Among the highways.

Up the nostrils
of the rows and rows of people,
always moving on the earth.
They
begin to sneeze. Gasp.
Pinch their foreheads in disgust.
Curse at the Ragweeds they were given
and destroy.

We have to relate to everything and
We bond in our destruction.

seven years young, always sharing a still smile.
You find him decked out and drowning in choir robes, with
Golden curls placed gently on a hammered head.


This boy plays piano in a dead sanctuary
Following familial rule,
until he let it all go.

the boy began playing music unwritten,
off hymnal sheets
Harmonious melodies stream from dancing fingertips,
Intrinsically clearing the once-cloudy air with vivacious voodoo.

The boy’s fingers groove up and down the piano,
His touch graces ivory keys and
His foot performs a rhythmic pedal-pressing tango.
He calls the audience: everywhere, eyes ignite like flame:
A communal headturn towards the piano.

They need more.
They crave it.

All the sanctuary people rise from the seats,
Abandon their pews, they enclose this boy.
No means to scare him, they want to experience.
The audience turns their ears towards the piano’s emissions,  

Emanating from within

Inhaling soundwaves—
Intoxicatingly sweet.
They absorb his notes into every pore of their skin,
Fueling their bodies with musical nutrients.
Electric jolts flow right into the room’s extremities.
They let down their hair and begin to dance.

Until a brief noise, distinctive throat-clearing, came through the speakers;
Heads shifted to the podium, only to see their ticked-off pastor,
Smirking and waving sarcastically.

Discipline.

The congregation stumbled back to their seats.
The boy stopped playing.
Ending the enchantment, killing the sanctuary.

Air again filled with ‘God’s voice’
through the mouth of the speaker.

A speaker who just wanted attention.
The boy slipped out of the piano seat, out the church’s doors.

You want to chase after him, give him a ride
Where could the boy be going in the middle of the storm?



The pastor’s prodigal son.

Familial negligence in elementary years,

Driving through road-blocks,




Uncertainty.



Dropping the pizza,

Often irrational,
   bad,

Camel spiders and snakes,

Loss of control,

Peeing your pants,





Bone-chilling



Beer eliminates fear.



Corrupt leaders and politics,

the unknown, the dangerous;



a basic emotion,
a defense mechanism,
a mentality,
protective,
a hindrance,
a motivator,





extremely complex, yet so basic.

Modern humanist social anxieties.
so strong that it stops actions, freezes situational progress.
does not allow the entity to make moves in harm's way.

provocative for offensive moves,
the extra push of adrenaline enabling someone to lift a car to save another.


Complex sentient beings empathize the fear in others, and project it onto others.


The fear of compromised freedom can be the catalyst to an organized protest of a handful or thousands of people against a potential or occurring government action.


A threat.

Paralyze--ation.

A jolt of the heart.



Fear is like love, linked to love, with its severe stress and anxiety




What if you turned fear into love?

A handpicked lemon from Saturday’s market
Plump, juicy, and golden.
Tear its skin off,
Throw the rinds in the green grass,
And chuck the good stuff in the twilight.

It sticks.

I don’t have eyes
But I can still feel

My brothers and sisters burrowing
Beside me. I can hear

Seagulls squawking disregarded songs
Children howling shrieks of delight… and of fear
As their tiny toes greet the vast emerald waters.

It is morning and I sit,
Amid my cold, silent siblings
Listening to the whine of the ocean that waxes and wanes,
Listening and waiting.

I don’t take notice when I fall asleep
Heavily dreaming in colors,
Imagining being swept up in a towel and carried away—
Would this be an accident? … Where would I go?
Would it be eternal punishment, or an endless vacation?

And all of a sudden, I feel the waters wash me clean,
Viciously, they throw me around like a lion catching prey.
High tide.

I now bask in the Sun.
And hear feet running near—
They stop; my surrounding siblings yell,
“This is it!!”

What is it? I think, as a group of us
Are lifted higher, hallowed hands place us
So close that we are one with each other,
Above the earth.

A deep voice from above cries,
“We made the perfect kingdom!”

And for a moment,

five pm, mid-winter

i thank Sky for taking sweet time.
Sky sets her thumb on the light-switch of the land.
she stands still, she waits.
for the hour, she meditates
on her day.
Sky hopes her skin
becomes verdigris the next day, not grey, but
verdigris to clothe **** trees. Or perhaps she will
hurt soon— Sky scars in
rainbows. Her change of thought: the small folks who have traveled
through her this day. She wonders where
they all
        go.

Open your eyes,
do you hear Sky’s mute call?
in her meditation, hour of magic, all
wakes.

on the earth, photographers peer from their windows,
then rush through their doors to catch Sky’s dancing gleams,
beams flash through the tip-top’s of the Sugar Maple family,
their shadows splatter onto ***-hole streets.
Sky brushes her grass and her roads with paint of a gold hue,
fresh Rorschach tests while her thoughts try to rest.

i spot a leaf sleeping in the street, deep wine and apricot,
twisted from months away from its Mother
the wind levitates the leaf—lightly—and the sun
creates a squirrel of it, he climbs the tree, and scrambles over
to me. in short squeaks, he explains his political theory,
“why do you let your peep el let a few rich folks control
all others? why don’t you follow me
into the woods?”

he grabs my skirt with his sweet little paws
but i look up and notice the darkness,
i look down and see only a leaf again.
Sky’s savasana has ended,
candles ignite in the houses, Sky and Sun crawl into bed.

i’ll wait now for the selenian Sun, but i can’t rest my eyes. soon
i will escape with my new friend.
bittersweet magic: “the moment” lost in the sock drawer.

five pm, midwinter


the afternoon is reaching an end,
Lady Sky decides when she wants to change for us.
as the sun sets, she meditates.

some call it the “magic hour”
but how can you truly tell magic from reality?
go outside and see.

radiant beams do the tango on the trees
(a leaf in the street becomes a squirrel as my eye blinks)
a squirrel who runs straight up to me.

“get outta the system while you can!”
he squeaks, then nods at me to follow his path, another blink



the sky darkens, the squirrel disappears.

“Caught a glance in your eyes
       And fell through the skies”
                          -- Alex Chilton



I shut my eyelids and
Before I knew it, we were climbing into a basket swing,
Pulling down the bar to our waists, and
Voyaging higher and higher into the sky—
I gazed up at the balloon carrying us
Then peaked down to see villages turn to squares,
Everything vanished swiftly with the wind
Carrying him and me to our final destination.
Visions of chestnut, scarlet rooftops, avocado treetops.
Spiraled together into one;
Streamed through my pupils and punched my retinas.
Smiling, I inhaled the miasmatic mixture of the air.
The boy beside me grabbed my hand,
Gazed in my eyes
And

up the water hole


Ledbetters:
the waterfall which we yearned to
explore on our days
off. like a fresh romance, we wanted to know
each rock on her body and how it got there.
the raft guides and myself,
the master of whitewater reservations, most days
working (trapped) in an old stone house
grabbing phones, calls from pockets-full-of-cash families, boy scouts,  
seeking gorge thrills on full days of
sun and moody thunderstorms.

Ledbetters:
she sits down the railroad tracks which ran
through our cabin homes (and my little shack-barn)
traintracks that kept running next to its river friend, heading into
the town as a timid tourist train jaunt.

we’d creep on top of the rails, while sparrows sang their high-pitched
refrains, river rafters’ shrieks faded,
(i’d pretend not to hear the rattlesnake’s jingle).
the sun beat down ******* our shoulders,
but stopped its punches when we snuck off the tracks,
onto the trail, into the woods.
(then, the spots of sun shone only where trees told them to)

down the path,
past the wooden bridge where we played Pooh Sticks,
past the old campfire spots, the towers of rocks we crafted so carefully,
to get to Ledbetter’s legs: her huge rocks, the heavy flow of water, her blood.

i always slipped and fell as i jumped from rock to rock,
up and over cliffed streams. higher and higher we would climb,
until we reached her narrow water hole:
Birth Canal.

i’ve been afraid to climb up Birth Canal—
shimmy up and clench its slippery rocks with gravity’s water
working against me. i’m almost certain she would wash me away,
i’d tumble down all her rocks, crack my skull on wet rock,
more of a Death Canal.
when you can overcome your mind,
are you truly reborn?

The Dead Man’s Waltz


Put down my suitcase and strap my arm in that chain.
I’ll grab the spoon of cooked candy,
Whose juices run from the silver
to the syringe
into my Red Sea.
       Moses isn’t here to part the waters.

Candy stands tall, her toes lining the prickly end
She’s about to plunge, dive into the stream.
I give her a push, let her in

Familiarity. Relief. Euphoria.
Ah—

             My head weighs me down, it
Falls slowly, magnetized to the white rug.
The room spins and my vision
Spins back.
             I see blurs of faded faces I don’t even care about
Don’t care about anything, really
Except how **** great my mind and body feel, tingling.

             Words can never really describe this feeling.
Oh, but they try
They do try
I try.
And yet—
             I’m speechless.
Utterly speechless,
Unconscious on this ***** excuse of a carpet.

How did I get here?
Rather, why can’t I live up to known callings?
Now I only dream of past roles,
             Roles once pure that are now washed away.
I fear.
The let-down leader shouldn’t be left questioning what’s right.
But here I lay. A troubled sheep
Who knows the way
And yet—

Where is the gatekeeper of truth?
Because I’d like a word.
With that, the Earth brings me a
thin gold stream, radiating from the ceiling
so bright, so pulling, surreal.
             Reach out my hand and feel it shaking
Its droning siren sounds louder and louder, the light  
Reels me in from inside,
             I squeeze my eyes shut, turn and retreat
Back to the pillow.
I’m not ready to confront it.

             Like a false light, trick candle,
It might not have taken me then—
Bad spirit’ll seize me one day,
And I still don’t know if I’ll be ready.

I digest the bedroom happenings—
Turn to the bedside, whip out my suitcase.
Go back to what feels good,
Let’s take another swim.
Skinny-dipping. I go through the known drill

No wonder so many people get caught up in this,
Abusive love affairs with Candy.
         My last dance with dope.