A dove descended
to peck out my tongue;
I gargled the names of god,
and spit blood flecks,
like splatters of ink,
into my broken hands.
I read without words-
the nuance in gestures,
rippled patterns on a lake.
Oblivious to the obvious
writings on the wall, and
without hope of redemption,
I mouthed my prayers
to any statues I came near.
(October 7, 2019)
One water drop falls–
ignore the expanding edge,
hold to the center.
(September 28, 2019)
She spoke without preface,
as if sh knew him:
each sentence a non-sequitar
even to itself; no beginning
no end, no predicate
to bend into an open heart.
Askew to his position,
she formed a fulcrum
with no place to stand
like surf far out to sea
crashing against itself.
Until in a froth of inaction,
he drowned, swallowing his words,
as if they mattered.
(August 21, 2019)
S
As if with a spoon,
she scoops the words
from his pliant mouth.
The rounded vowels,
and crisp consonants
shred her tongue
with shards of ice.
Meanwhile, with slick
knives, he carves
all conversation,
leaving bits of blood,
like rose petals,
to stain the ground
in a red-wet lust.
Neither he, not she,
can speak into
what was said.
They stare, stunned,
past empty eyes;
their mouths slack
like the recent dead.
(February 5, 2019)
from “Change” a work in progress
Too often, when I find time
to write, the clamor of the day
staggers about drunkenly,
muddling my thoughts. So,
I wait, go for a walk, cook.
Eventually all the falderal
falls away to silence;
and, I write again.
(January 22, 2019)
Am I here?
Can you hear me
anymore?
I am no answer
to your questions,
implied, or stated.
Is this what’s left–
to fade in and out
like a side-show ghost?
Am I here
scratching inside
the house’s walls,
like a rat
slowly dying?
(September 27, 2018)
in this vacuous world the air is pulled
from these lungs like a scream on a string
a whirlygig’s motion without purpose
other than to click and clack in the wind
as winter branches break against branches
with a self-flagellating destruction
my words flail against themselves in anger
searching for a simplicity not there
I’ve desired to speak since I was a child
but have been hesitant to raise my voice
above the churning storm outside the door
the constant turmoil conspires to control
like a hand at my throat each syllable
until all I could say is ground to dust
(September 26, 2018)
