As He Peered over his Glasses

She spoke without preface,

as if sh knew him:

each sentence a non-sequitar

even to itself; no beginning

no end, no predicate

to bend into an open heart.

Askew to his position,

she formed a fulcrum

with no place to stand

like surf far out to sea

crashing against itself.

Until in a froth of inaction,

he drowned, swallowing his words,

as if they mattered.

(August 21, 2019)

Chromosome Damage (continued)

(Work in Progress)


I caught my breath,

And did not speak.

Is writing equivalent

To speech? I loved you,

In silence.


Self-doubt’s constant

Caterwauling echoes,

Like now— I mock

Attempts to quiet:

Hush, hush

Little baby hush—

All these scorpions

Are your own, each

Tail-strike skitters

Across skin.


Memory circles back to savage the corpse.


If only the dead would remain with the dead;

The past cannot so easily be revised—

I know what I desire to have happened;

Yet a mirror cannot be unbroken.


I can only see what

I think it is I see.


A lens warps light.


We are woven through our day

Despite our proclivities

Or desires. A thread’s easy

Enough to trace in retrospect

As being a part to a whole.


And here I am

Beneath a December moon

Waxing its way

Across a gray night.

Fate, or circumstance,

Is of no consequence.


He touches his forehead

To the damp ground

In a patterned response

To appease God’s chaos.

Here things are quiet;

Here one pretends

There is this center.


She waits, then dons her mask.


He scurries beneath the rain.

Gretel Lost in the World


no dragons burn and pillage

even when lost in metaphorical

forests. the children’s screams

in the candy houses next door

are real enough not to be just

symbols in a jungian melodrama

analyzed casually over a cup of tea.

there are no stories to hide within.

the steel-eyed king and queen

handing down impartial justice

never existed anymore than the gods

who were used to justify raw power.

Whereas the black-helmed men

with polished shields and truncheons

still freely move down city streets

searching for someone else to kill.

(October 12, 2018)


“The point is not to find a reader, the point is the telling itself.”
                        –Anne Carson
thought arises like sacrifice
burning flesh and ash to heaven
within the word before the word
and then gone at the last
I struggle inside and desire
response without prerequisite
outside ventures to initiate
myself into fire’s circling dance
darkness gathers on the edge
and whispers to the flames
let me in let me through
let me sing this night to you
no other hears the flutter
of soft footsteps in the dust
(January 17, 2017)

No Escaping the Words

I cannot forget what I will not say;
the words clot along my dry arteries.
The dust is difficult to breathe. I gasp
after what I want to be true, as if
through force of will I can change my life.
In swaths large enough to hide within, I
erase chunks of my stories. I forget,
or rather gloss over, all that I must
in order not to cringe in constant shame.
It is not that what I have done is wrong,
but when I am presented with a choice,
I take the coward’s way, the easy way,
and acquiesce with subservient smiles,
knowing all the while that I am a lie.

(September 8, 2016)