To Etch the Edge of Darkness

Our words hold close,

unhinge, this dream–

a singular

translucent dawn.

Narrative fragments

float around a room,

flotsam and jetsam

without back story,

without connection

to a set array

defining truth, lies

into difference.

An organic flux

tendrils arabesques

along fractal lines

until we shatter.

(November 11, 2019)

Desire’s the First Motion

I cannot stop

thinking: thought

takes tangent

from thought

like traces

of bubble chamber

particles, arcs

spin angles skew

to the intent

as if even

a tendency

toward a line

could be maintained

for any strand

to cohere.

(January 6, 2018)

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.




“to write against the ghost”

                        –Susan Howe


I am simply more nothing

to be overlooked, an absence

to be removed, like a hole

filled with fresh corpses,

then coyly landscaped

into an ubiquitous green calm,

easily assuaged and forgotten.

I speak in simple tongues

without need of translation:

such is my metaphor,

eraser crumbs brushed

aside without consequence.

Lost in the muck of language,

I claw across my margins’

sharp fractal edges, then fade.


(April 3, 2018)

Beneath the White Noise of Age My Voice is Muffled

jardines laberinto del Longleat en Wiltshire, Inglaterra.


Tangents follow tangents

As I speak. Transitions

Diverge from an initial

Turn in conversation,

Like fractals of ice spread

Across eyes of the dead.


I stop and cannot see

I’m lost in an older tale.

From birth, the labyrinth unfolds:

Where I’ve been, where I go

Tangle as each step implodes

Into my present quandary,

Much as snow sifts across

Barren hills beneath the stars.


(March 3, 2018)

Still Point



“Our awareness leaves us defenseless”

–H.D. The Walls do not Fall, 27




Like an assassin’s garrote,

A grape vine swirls around

The surrounding trees;

It pulls itself toward light,

Tangling through the clotted

Branches, among the shadow.


At dusk, the edge

Of the earth’s present;

Unlike the dawn,

Where it’s disguised

In a radiant light.

To be aware is to vanish.

Totality’s moment

Slips past unnoticed.


(January 26, 2018)




I address you
The other self
Split into reflection
Through a lens
Neither you nor I
Yet another other
Beyond us both
Who turns again
With a jaundiced eye
Gazes and thus transforms
You me us
Into a fractal array
Without apparent source
(May 14, 2017)