accents shift

from one neighborhood

to the next — one town

over– no more sounds

like yours or your friends

at the corner pub

where even the odd

and unloved fit warmly

at a table in the dark

where the fog follows you

home into a darker wood

until your voice tangles

among incestuous roots

and a knife draws

a line along your throat

at the possibility

of a misunderstanding

(April 22, 2019)

Among the Wreckage



 “. . . . . . . . . . I want in the heaps of rubble

at last to hear my voice again

which was a howling from the very start”

–Ranier Marie Rilke


The flailing screams

have been left behind;

most days now, I speak

with a calm bitterness.

My anger’s directed inward

toward my personal failings

more than to worldly disdain.

No longer like the nascent shock

of a newborn’s confrontation

with the air, I write now

in a desperate determination

to witness the insidious lies

I tell myself to survive

the language of the ruins.


(May 3, 2018)




“to write against the ghost”

                        –Susan Howe


I am simply more nothing

to be overlooked, an absence

to be removed, like a hole

filled with fresh corpses,

then coyly landscaped

into an ubiquitous green calm,

easily assuaged and forgotten.

I speak in simple tongues

without need of translation:

such is my metaphor,

eraser crumbs brushed

aside without consequence.

Lost in the muck of language,

I claw across my margins’

sharp fractal edges, then fade.


(April 3, 2018)





little of what’s said

can pass without


to encompass within

a new language the old,

a translation unfolds


my metaphor of cloth,

my change of clothes,

my understandings,

like an old television,

flickering in the dark,

slips frames unfocused:


alone, I do not know

What’s left to put on


(February 26, 2018)