The Creative

from “Change” a work in progress


I was

not here;

but still,

I am


In time,

I am




the egg.

(January 19, 2019)


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)

Shape of Nothing



hands cupped beneath

the water wait,

like still bells hang

about to sound

the sky’s dark depths.


spaces open

where there were none

like hope rising

with a new moon

above the trees.


out of nothing

a shape’s contained;

out of nothing

a world’s remade.


(October 9, 2018)




“chiseller of inaccuracies”

–Fernando Pessoa


I would not speak

if I knew what to say.

There would be no need

to form words around

an unrealized dream.

It is the unsaid

which must be given

shape; which calls us

from its shapeless dark

to speak into existence

what we cannot know.

Yet, I know so little

about so much, I must

speak about it all.

I start where I am

which is always here.

First, I must listen,

discern the shapes

before I can speak.

My words carve out

what is there

from what is not

as the silence unfolds

a new kind of truth.


(August 23, 2018)

Waiting on the Muse



“I live by impulse, by emotion, by white heat”

–Anais Nin, “Henry and June, A Tunnel of Love


impulse would not wait

to feel the white intensity;

with no emotion to attach,

she’d coldly leap away,

unfinished, unresolved.

no tidy ends in escape,

just bloodied stumps

where our hands were

torn away through neglect,

and unrequited regret.


(August 19, 2018)

Original Sin



If I hold cliché in my hand

like an apple, will I fall

to its seduction? Dare I bite

the peach, perhaps an avocado,

or pursue the nubile temptress

dancing a bare finger’s tip

out of reach? It’s laughable

to think I might escape it.

The original roots still leach

the metaphor from the soil,

while I root about like a pig

snuffling for elusive truffles.


Each word I speak is mine alone;

each word I speak has been said before.


(July 28, 2018)




as in rain

arms out

head back


only my voice

in the way


I open to silence


(July 23, 2018)

something from nothing



if I could say,

then I would

not have to—


the inexpressible

drives every attempt

to define


Frost’s wall

Stevens’ jar

Eliot’s need


lines and circles—

outside— the other,

the ineffable


nothing comes

from nothing


(March 7, 2018)




Poetry is existence: the bark

Of the primal tongue gnawed

Into the first cave’s wet clay.

I summon myself with words

Others have spoken. They offer

A bastion, a solace to live out.

Each line defines, creates tension

Between what I know and silence;

Where I am, where I leave off.

When reading late at night,

Or walking in morning fog,

I vanish into some other

Like a fish blindly mouthing

Voiceless O’s into the air.


(February 28, 2018)