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amorphous

from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (14)

forgetting the pattern of fear

and doubt tangled about me

I fall out of sleep and remember

what parts of myself I need

to continue some resemblance

of the day the inessential shades

my ghosts as darkly as the essential

each shifts its position evasively

when questioned like a cat

slips through shadow and grass

(January 21, 2020)

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Simple Enchantments of the Young

The cracks proved the power

of words. Such spells cast

across the fissures formed

fears of a painful death.

Who would be willing to test

this hypothesis on one so dear?

Her survival, by correlation,

confirmed the childish chant.

She lived. Not writhing on

the floor, vertebrae shattered,

just oblivious to your heroic

leaping, like a hopscotch knight,

from slab to concrete slab

to save your one true love.

(December 5, 2019)

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Sunday Morning

In downtown Baltimore

Years after he died

Lou Reed sings from the sound system

Of this corporate hotel lobby.

This is funnier

Than it should be.

I am almost sixty years old,

Attending an English teacher convention.

Back in Austin, hours later,

I casually toss herbs into the mortar,

And without thought, begin to grind:

“I don’t want to know…

All the streets you’ve crossed

Not so long ago”

(November 24, 2019)

Flux

“the warmth spun by the word

around its center the dream called ourselves”

                        –Tristan Tzara

He steps into seams

to sow a discord,

so as to unravel

that which cannot

be patched with 

threaded needles.

Like veins feed

extremities of flesh,

roots rip into earth

in increments

turning aside the grain

as one would wade

through water, searching.

He knows this as himself:

with walls, without walls,

doors opened, doors closed,

or no doors at all.

He stands within a room.

He confines himself

to his consigned spaces.

His hands rarely held high

in an ecstatic dance, but

tucked tightly together

holding himself wholly.

What walls wait for

him to stand before

dissolve in streams 

winding their way

toward a dead sea.

So it flows, again,

emergent, never 

itself, each moment

becomes the next

excuse for love,

the next consequence

to be sorted

like bits of broken glass

for a new mosaic

scattered across a table.

(August 28, 2019)