Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Why I Don't Understand It

The poem
stood just above
the surface of the garbled
sea. The rest
was harmony whose
density merged
with the waters around it.
We may never see below,
risk the dangers. The surface
scares us enough.

Monday, May 29, 2017

Facing Deborah

The not-our-sisters,
the tabulators, the
judges, how
they want to fear us.
They judge us by their
fear of us. And how
we want our confidence
to be stolen from us.
Even in the way they stand
and walk and speak and
the shape of their garments,
how we want to fear them.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

The Role Playing Game

I'm not that person.
I'm not that
age. I'm in the human
container that makes
the words operate
in the murk of strangers,
in the fog of
not really knowing,
in the void of not really
caring, the shimmer of
freedom to turn out the light.
I try to invoke the words.
She tries to invoke the words.
I try to find the words
as she
tries to find the words,
the single words
that cause
a thank you.

Thursday, May 11, 2017

Ascent Aspiration Friday's Poems

My poems "Chicken Fricassee and Concrete" and "Science Says Reincarnation's Not a Punishment" will be published in Friday's Poems in June.


Tuesday, May 09, 2017

The Smell of Daytime: poetry and photographs

The Smell of Daytime: poetry and photographs

The Smell of Daytime

It's morning
I emerge from the first circle
where there is only me
dripping with ectoplasmic yolk.
The sunlight is low
reminding me loudly
through the window.
But I come out slow,
meeting with you,
the people of the symbol,
in light flashes and black kinks
halfway out of dreams.

Something beyond has life.
as slowly my sources of pain,
fragrance, touch.
I hear her.

Wednesday, May 03, 2017

Science Says Reincarnation's Not a Punishment

If you get
turned into an animal
next time around, you
don't have to worry.
You won't have tv and
you won't drive, but
you'll have family
and friends and fresh air.
Your life may be shorter
but time will be different.

Tuesday, May 02, 2017

Afternoon Nap Soliloquy

I am tired of the modest life,
the checkered career,
living in this
maladaptive skin.
I sit like the king
in my counting house and
count the errors
of my ways, like
heaven will.
I feel
the document in preparation.
I can already see
the face of the judge.
Why were you
brought here?
she will say.