Monthly Archives: March 2015

this poem

… is infinite, impotent, impudent. it’s an arrogant, aerodynamic argument. it’s got a whole pocket full of regrets and for -gotten conversation, and it’s never gonna get ……over it. it can neither heel, nor heal. it’s got one too many … Continue reading

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Incantations of Longing

… We wish on stars, lashes, pennies, stones, other fallen things. We sing in syllables left wanting, grasp loose feathers for want of wings. Holding breath for side -walk, train track, we braid our brightest fears, weave a tiny saffron … Continue reading

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this poem

…. this poem sizzles, singes, sings. there are things this poem knows, but will not tell. it spells re -lief and wriggles free of tasks and masks, hum -anity. this poem is a struggling song that knows no difference be … Continue reading

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S(hr)ink to Fit

…. We watch the wind sink into the sea, pulled by swollen moon. The sky is a bruised bumble -bee, stung by silence, crim -son song. How shall we count the tears that have salted these sands? In teaspoons, thimbles, … Continue reading

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Me, Op

… This poem is an in -solent soul dressed in a silk kimono, a puzzle with a missing piece. This poem is a sardonic hag eating sardines straight from the can, while listening to the Batman theme. This poem is … Continue reading

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Chamber of Secrets

“My heart is not here” – Sir Walter Scott … Have you seen her? I sent her out for a long stroll along this indigo sea, and she has not yet come back ………….to me. Perhaps she stopped ……for a … Continue reading

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Harry Wants a Heffalump

… (he’s feeling a little woozy) He’s in a nonstop writing slump, and this one is a doozy. Harry wants a heffalump, not a ferret nor a frog. He’s had it with cat-astrophes and can’t get his dog to blog. … Continue reading

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Hobbies

…. We’ve left our stamps and coins and dead butterfly wings by the side of the road ………………..for dead. We’ve no more room for pages and pages and pages of scraps, framed and frozen moments …………………..spent. We’re bent and broken … Continue reading

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Night Song

…. We sleep in tongues, interpreters notwithstanding, paint indigo crosses in search of new be -ginnings. Your last dream was stolen wild by sunshine, rain, smashed clay po(e)ts cracking. Our greatest powers lie in these smithereened places, crescent scars under … Continue reading

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Vigil for Winter

.. “Must I hold a candle to my shames?”  – The Merchant of Venice   … These stars are Roman candles to my scars, splitting this sky wide open with lust -er. My crippled hands are crocuses, poking up through … Continue reading

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