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Work on What has been Spoiled

From “Renditions of Change” a work in progress

Caught in a tight 

spiral of self-loathing,

I try to scrape

and cut away 

memory,

like a benign tumor.

Yet, I return and return

to each malignant moment,

and paint my face

in ritual guilt,

as if one could absolve

the past, and be free. 

(February 12, 2019)

Featured

Possession in Great Measure

from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress

As I teach my students,

I try to be honest

in who I am;

yet, fear

I’m a fraud.

Teaching’s resistance:

how to read,

analyze,

break meaning from words–

then rewrite

in the students’ voices

without becoming

a lie that exalts

the life

they are not.

(February 7, 2019)

A Present Absence


As if braille,

I cannot be traced

Without a quick

Flutter of fingers

Across the page.

Even as I hide

Within words,

My handwriting,

Like kudzu, disguises

My intent.

I don metaphor

And stand still

To cloak certainty

In comfortable 

Deniability.

My whispers are

My camouflage—

Hints and misdirection

Like bells nearby 

In the dark.

(December 3, 2018)

Source

images

Often while reading,

I scan the words,

turn the pages,

and then the book

vanishes, and I vanish,

aware of nothing.

 

To hold nothing,

and have nothing hold,

I desire this freedom–

a breath unnoticed,

as it is

ubiquitous:

 

Radiant, without center,

I cannot name

my discontent.

A wind, at my ear,

stills as I turn;

yet, still’s nearby.

 

(November 4, 2018)

Leaf Fall

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Somewhere, not here

A field lies open,

Unframed, without

Mind, as if lost,

Waiting on ritual.

 

In Increments,

I have changed.

Each day dawns

Into itself;

There is no other.

 

Hear, and here

As well, I

Still seek

Her across

These echoes:

 

She followed

A fragile winter

Ice across a lake.

I am cold; the wood

Grown dark.

 

(October 30, 2018)

Waiting on the Muse

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“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)