I project myself onto a new world

Which is not mine, but simply becomes mine.

These become moments when something happens

And nothing happens. I exist tangled

In marginalia, a handwriting

Stitched upon the edges. Another book

Becomes a palimpsest to my tired thought,

A filter to strain away the slither.

Roman priests examined the intestines

Of animals slaughtered for sacrifice.

To devine auguries in the moment,

When something happened, and nothing happened,

They would take the eviscerated signs-

The clots of blood, the bits of flesh, as truth.

(November 30, 2018)

Gretel Lost in the World


no dragons burn and pillage

even when lost in metaphorical

forests. the children’s screams

in the candy houses next door

are real enough not to be just

symbols in a jungian melodrama

analyzed casually over a cup of tea.

there are no stories to hide within.

the steel-eyed king and queen

handing down impartial justice

never existed anymore than the gods

who were used to justify raw power.

Whereas the black-helmed men

with polished shields and truncheons

still freely move down city streets

searching for someone else to kill.

(October 12, 2018)

Our Words



While the mendacious moan

their pious exclamations

to smother any dissent,


a metaphor translates thought,

holds out the broken leaves

as an offering from the gods,


an opening to move through

to find a different bend

in the light you’ve come to know.


The ground, slightly uneven,

is common enough, a solid

base to build upon.


Simple words whispered

into temples and prisons.


(August 21, 2018)

the words were why I wrote when young



the words were a way out

between the rigid definitions,

the expectations carved in cant


the words slipped along fault

line’s edges; the incongruous fissured

like water through the undefined


the words wore meaning there,

bare and taut, shrugging off

all social niceties for love


the words were love for the world:

the laughter of the sun rippling

the horizon further each day


words were a way to a salvation

from what I was not to become


(June 25, 2018)

Macbeth had Scorpions in His Mind



Me, I’m much more mundane:

just piles of clutter collected over

meandering decades: associations

misconstrued; memories cast,

broken, reconfigured again

and then again into iteration

after iteration, before scattered

about the place so willy-nilly

one can barely move without

stumbling, causing stacks to collapse

onto stacks, shifting the only path

throughout this maze as if there

were ever one way to go,

as I was about to find out.


(June 21, 2018)

the untold continues despite silence


there is always that moment which arrives

when the conversation has abated

and all that must be said remains unsaid

and our minds’ sharp intimacies depart

amid insincere handshakes and chaste hugs

in a doorway and what occurred that night

vanishes into small talk’s silent wish


and this wish is somehow always the same

which is somehow that what one says matters

enough somehow to whomever may hear

that they will somehow respond in a way

which will somehow equate as well to your

first desire and yet still somehow both will

mange to survive your disparate lives


(January 31, 2018)



A time to speak up


Think of it


As punctuation,

But rather

Dialect, decorated

By accented diacritical marks.


If I speak in such

A manner that’s averse

To the way your words wander,

Perhaps you should listen

To how variations

Play across our story:


Resistance exists

Along the blade

Of consonant’s hiss and click.

As the oldest god

Has whispered before:

The word changes the world.


(December 20, 2017)