Today, I’m Broken

“Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang!” —Arthur Miller
In the space
where foolishness
counters sense
rests the rub of trust.
I cannot speak:
my name’s
an aggregate
of shattered
bones and blood,
pulp in a thin
skin bag
sags against
a closed door.
My name’s
wrong; it echoes
its mistake
along empty halls.
For decades,
I’ve learned
it’s wrong
to trust
my uttered
a red stain
seeps across
the floor.
(March 21, 2015)


Everything I see reflects,
and refracts, what echoes
can only seek to say:
a partial phrase unparsed,
a face in studied pose.
So, I turn, and return
again, to words I’ve said,
or heard, with hope such
seed will grow and flower
more than my vain need;
yet, know the crows, who caw
from fence and field, watch
with darker eyes the shadow
twine and twirl about us all.

(December 17, 2014)

Sourceless Tension

Vaguely omnipresent,
it emanates
and radiates
at once
inside and outside
and myself
like the universe’s
low hum
beneath millennia
of ontic threat;
it leaks
all permutations,
between our arms
like morning glory
toward the sun.
I hold myself
along the edge
of permeability;
neither a part
or apart –
a transition
like the last
of a solar flare.
(October 20, 2014)

What’s Why

No reason to explain our reason’s
details: truth remembers more
than you, or my lost vows, past
the fissured surface’s skin, into
substrate’s fractured fault lines.
She waits with patience to shift
violently away at once; even before,
my first tongued tremors play along
the  length of your taut skin.
Such tensions tune themselves
in key to your determined wants,
driving you deeper to mine
the resonant scraps in my heart.
I stand across your divisions, and wait
for time’s breach to tumble us together.

(October 12, 2014)


Like an iconic creature boiling
off the bottom of the sea,
dense ripples cross my shoulder
blades clawing the sky for air:
I don’t know where I am.
Fog entombs the shore
along a frothing sea;
I am not a part of either
the land, the air, or ocean.
There is no fire to tend,
no wood, or kindling to gather,
only a vast grey mist
with no source of light.
I say my name.
No echo answers.
(September 12, 2014)

My Fear Finds Me

Within this light
I carry, I am only
able to see beyond
myself a certain way
into the darkness.
Friends turn as I
enter; in greeting,
I nod as if I know
anything more
than who I once was.
I bring what I can
to the table, scraps
of past ideas I can
no longer patch
together as one.
I try to listen,
but only sense
the conversation’s
rhythms and flow
dancing in the room.
Uncaught in any
ear, I watch my
metaphors die
gasping in need
of explanations.
The noise becomes
my silence, a cocoon
to comfort into safe
solace while the world’s
fangs drip in hunger.

(April 28, 2014)