petal’s flesh unfolds

“These blooms are not seen.”
–Luce Irigary
what I seek cannot be said
it lies beneath soft voices
a substrate for the spoken
a scaffold like spider’s threads
from which to dangle as the words
work their way past resistances
returning to your flesh what was given
adorning it with roses like kisses
blossoming across untended gardens
wild effusions unfurling its petals
withholding nothing in the resonances
of its deep mournful ululations
which began to bud in the silences
of all we could not say so long ago

(December 26, 2015)

topographic maps

like the flat
of these lines
to the distant
of our true natures
your pattern
I laid upon
myself remains
I bend back now
a switchback
path snaking up
a mountain 
as origami folds
the timeline’s
disparate moments
to trace finger
tips to lips
to causality’s kiss
a brushed cognizance
like whispers
much too late
to know who
spoke of whom
if at all through
the dark lost
in our ways
(December 23, 2015)


in oblique gestures
open undefined
with a Burmese
dancer’s grace
her hands fluttered
as she spoke
into our conversations
of love
and her desires
like a comet’s tail
I trailed behind
her voice
laced with insinuations
my edges slowly
behind a wave
rolling onward
toward a darker shore
I stood within
my guilt
like a sea swell
rises lifting
my feet
from the sea bed
before falling back
into obscurity
and despair
(November 23, 2015)

love’s pervasive light

The full moon in Arles
hung above Austin as well.
We all live one life.
He watches the moon;
she hears a whisper, and looks up!
Months of silence pass.
She watches the moon;
alone, he sees it too—
light dawns to the whole.
They watch the full moon,
lost in their separate lives:
love’s pervasive light.

Like you, I exist alone:
O, Moon! Reflection of love.

(October 28, 2015)


Avoiding eye contact,
I  looked askew
to her vision:
almost parallel;
yet, by degrees
we crossed,
then parted – –
a slow divergence,
a way away.

(October 16, 2015)

motivation to write

after a couple of days of not writing
I am shadowed by a fear that I won’t
write any more that poetry has stopped
speaking to me not even wisps or hints
at vague understandings just mute
as if all words were absorbed back
into silence’s primeval maw
without even grunts or gestures
to contain inarticulate desire’s
flailings for more than just itself
inevitably it is this silence
which draws me back into the page
the fear that without the words
there remains nothing which is me

(August 1, 2015)