I project myself onto a new world

Which is not mine, but simply becomes mine.

These become moments when something happens

And nothing happens. I exist tangled

In marginalia, a handwriting

Stitched upon the edges. Another book

Becomes a palimpsest to my tired thought,

A filter to strain away the slither.

Roman priests examined the intestines

Of animals slaughtered for sacrifice.

To devine auguries in the moment,

When something happened, and nothing happened,

They would take the eviscerated signs-

The clots of blood, the bits of flesh, as truth.

(November 30, 2018)

Storied Definition



Within the parameters

Which define me,

Am I who I am,

Or who I have created?

I revise a simple story

Of which I am a part;

The story compels belief,

And I comply completely.

I am only a part of

this story as a voice

I hear, which stays near

Slightly behind all I do:

I am this voice, this story;

I am my only limitation.


(November 20, 2018)

Pieces From Different Puzzles



For years, nothing fit.

I’d puzzle over

patterns; imagine

interweaving strands;

trace lines through tangles;

and believed in gods.


To think is belief

it can be known,

the first delusion.

There’s nothing beyond

reason, but paradox.


No grand unified

theory to connect

everything to all,

each box was its own

design, the pieces

cut with precision.


Now what is in front

of me is enough.

I no longer seek

the last missing part

in my broken heart.


(June 8, 2018)

Blur Into Heaven



The words above the door

replicated and smeared

themselves along the wall.


With one stroke, I saw

what drugs decades before

revealed in delusion:


For a surety,

our projections turn

back proffering chains.


Yet, no chains exist beyond

our myopic visions;

the earth begins and ends


with a whisper, with a shout,

with inarticulate gargling


(May 15, 2018).




I’m not sure I do much,

but open doors, set up chairs,

provide a place to read,

talk, write; which is enough

and yet, is not enough

to beat back the belligerence

barking like a spittle-flecked

beast. I can’t save them

from what is to come,

nor always be there to speak

amiably into their distress,

and voiceless traumas.

But there is this room,

an open door, and a chair.


(March 27, 2018)

A Day’s Fate



Light, like gauze

Over skin, glazes

The forest floor

In mottled shadows.


As on other days,

One walks here

With a slow step

Along patterned trails.


What’s to discover

Depends upon the lens

One brings—The light

And the dark blend.


All paths converge

In each step’s shift.


(January 28, 2018)