Inarticulate I am trying, still, to touch something, something I cannot name, something that those of faith and bereft of doubt might call God — the inviolate kernel of epiphany — not so much to remove the grey between the black and white as to know myself, my own heart, to hold onto the days
Living Inside Our Bodies Living inside our bodies we never know the extent of our reach, where the tiny seedpods of our smiles are blown, where they lodge, where they reside deep in memory, how long they endure emitting their silent love, how much they become beacon, they become anchor, balm. In word, in action,
On the Shelf You turned the wheel — I spun around: but I was not clay to your hands, I did not shape to your image, my imperfections would not vanish. Now you have left me here, fired and glazed, hard and set.
Two Women, Two Paths 1. One woman is holding on white-knuckled hard. She wears her grief buttoned up tight holding herself within it fearing her own disappearance fearing air on skin fearing the world beyond him. She takes it to her bed as talisman as substitute as protector to ward off his absent warmth at
Autumn Wind time and an autumn wind unfurl the curtain lace in a silent kitchen I watch the cat; hunched, creeping slowly along the shelf a silent candle wavers shadow through the crystal time etching darkness on the wall
Spies Again the dream melds facets of real & unreal with colors of ochre and starfish-orange we are on a jagged beach bordered with dense trees maybe the Delaware Capes or Penobscot Bay & lighting a small stick fire & wearing animal skin coats waiting for someone important for whom we have leather bags full
Because Because I’m a skeleton wearing a few inches of flesh & some jeans I’m going to rub my face on some wild columbine & learn how to live on rocky slopes, sing all the neighbors’ stares into my direction, suck on this rice like it’s a 5 star meal & it is, convert my
Blues in Blue Some days they shadow me like a badly dubbed film, lines lagging just behind the lips. Don’t talk to me about serenity. One guy ate an airplane piece by piece over two years, but he still couldn’t fly. Maybe the things I’ve believed in most all this time have been fossilizing my
The Microphone Speaks The Microphone Speaks: So this is how it feels to be outdated: watching headsets couple with main acts every night while I haven’t had a date for months. Go ahead, call me the vestigial organ of the music industry. I am the myth of the appendix. Now, singers’ hands are free to
Remind me again how our love was ill-advised Remind me again how our love was ill-advised I swing from the branches of that forbidden tree. You rest your hands on your knees and bow your head low. In that valley of your own creation you ask God, and, of course, your Blessed Mother, that you
