Entwined to the words…


Maybe I am a toddler, too
when the rug is pulled
from under me
like a failed magic trick
bloody tablecloth in your hands
shards of heirloom china on the floor
I sit in the wreckage
trying not to get crystal splinters
in my naked feet
and you put on my favorite record
to help you mourn the loss
and that infuriates me more
than any loss of dishes
all I want is something untainted
something you never showed me
something that’s mine
mine mine mine
so maybe I’m a toddler too
I just hope I don’t have to spend time out
cleaning up your mess

View original post

Mourning scent

That odor

Sublimated alcohol and grief

I can no longer stand

The smell of my skin

Ill yet working

Tired scrubbing hands

Attempt (to no avail)

To remove the scent

From that no-longer-marriage bed

We’ll burn the scarlet fever from the sheets

Sleep cold awhile.

Sea Call

Step foot from dock planks,
leaving this crackling ground,
if your hands tremble daily;
if your temper is snap-n-pop thin.
The ocean’s wake-billy rhythm,
rolling rough from sky to sky,
will change your gait for the better.
No more slouching on street corners.
Its salt smack will rid the City
from your domesticated sinuses.
Step foot, both together, jump.
Strangers’ hats you’ve tipped;
their guts you’ll spill, so stay not
or in a day, you’ll kill.
It’s a cascade of debt and doubt,
you pod-less pea.
Step foot now, Sea Call,
the shipboard dream
will dunk your delirium,
washing you clean.


Let me make your life small
And the rest spacious
Quietly tending the salt-sprinkled corners
Of our yellow house
Boughs of hyssop in the doorways
Fending off those who need more
There is so much rich soil
Already provided
Plenty to tend in one bed
Do that well.
Taste every drop of your own cup
So your thirst won’t consume you
When you have to leave these walls
You can return to a space
Well tended
Well loved

As It Concerns Modernity

Pressing cattle feet

I saw a minivan, with a battering ram. Driven by a flag-football mom, with a helmet on. There were babies on board, possibly a full-on horde. Oh, lords… we all die bored.

Pressing Cattle Feet

I saw a minivan,

With a battering ram.

Driven by a flag-football mom,

With a helmet on.

There were babies on board,

Possibly a full-on horde.

Oh, lords… we all die bored.


The broken wire—piercing the lard that sits and swings our heart strings, too tense between—it carries the indivisible motion of sounds, sights, and cinnamon sticks—meaning sensations—because it can, because it does as developed. Not without thought, it’s forever mutable. But without a plan, it’s the thoughtlessness making the wire wired. It’s the sound making the wire dance. And at the same time, the wire is the sound—indivisible waves made of music. It always leads to this:

I’m a hat without a hatter, or I’m the airplane flight turbulence without the airplane passengers. Lifted. Neutral. Just up here dreaming, dancing, being.

I am only the words. It will fall to someone with bone in legs to walk the actions.