hunger’s curse desires
another on which to feed
a peach’s tart flesh
slick on a lover’s tongue
a baguette’s hot crust
draped in churned butter
her hand leading you
to the folds of her bed
(November 11, 2015)
-
cliff’s edge
by
hold this nowfor there is onlybut the momentarms outspreadas if in sacrificeI hang abstractmy life’s skin unfurlsa fire’s last wisplike song into airthe driven urgeto escape to runtoward then or whenalways on the vergeof a fall(November 11, 2015) -
story
Story
Few have time for the storiesof the old, too much exposition,too many tangential tales,too much context to includebefore a life can unfold.The tendency’s to explain it all:to become lost in the slights,to recall the narrative so allcan believe the way it happenedto have happened is the way you believe.I know I know I-know-nothing-matters matters to me, I know.I know the darkness is the darkness,not a badge to pin to a green sash,not a medal to intrigue a crow;but I can’t accept the beliefI must believe in my deathto believe I will be happy, not now,but later, when I no longer matter.Yet this is the story I’m told.This is the story I too often tell:what I say matters if only to me.I’ve listened to my blather for years,traced each line like veins in my armin search of the next dull pulse,as if some message is telegraphedslightly ahead of my next word,my next breath, warning my nextmanifestation at the momentall my stories have bled out.(November 7, 2015) -
as if I knew
wisdom cannot comefrom withoutslippedinto a pocketlike raina reservoir to swallowall sadnessall fearstrite perhapsbut wisdom’s withinstripped from distractiona crisp visionto breeda cleaner line(November 7, 2015) -
I am Lost
by
A moment unfoldsits petals to the ground.Crisp brown edgesa faded red:always somewhere,never here,tightly curledupon the floor.(November 7, 2015) -
Road Kill
In the season of squirrel suicide,the leaves are a different color green;the air takes on a cleaner taintwith just a smoky tinge of fear.Jim says they are without volition,responding to deep genetic desires;yet, amid their hesitant stutter stepsthey stop, and stare holding my eyeas if to say to us all: yes, it is time.If they truly are without reason,why then do they reverse themselves,and seem to fling their soft bodieswith such spastic martyrdominto my way and its destruction?(Revised/reclaimed from memory, 1982/2015) -
love’s pervasive light
The full moon in Arleshung 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) -
Yet Again
by
I fall into silence.Words I desiredto speak troublemy thoughts as muchas those once said;I can only speak nowwhen you are not near:to laugh, or pity, orknow I was sincere.I have become a ghostto you, a figured markfrom which I gaugemy slow resilienciesto the quandaries of love.(October 26, 2015) -
there
by
a position withouttranscendencewithout departurea solidityon which to standlike stepping stonesin a rivertherebut an eggshellas our skyawaits anotheranother wayunder a truthinto anothertherewelcomes beliefthen feedsuntil no otherturns back to airlike an exhalationinto silence(October 24, 2015) -
a hunger feeds upon the dead
this is what I’ve becomea remnanta scrap of fleshvomited to the grassdark clouds swirlabove a dry earththere was onlythen notideals constrainedin ambitionor lustbecame decorationsalong a ropeused to tie my heartto a dead treebroken in wind’s indifference(October 23, 2015) -
so be it
the cottonwood rustleswith the windas a whisper danceswithin a candle’s flameno prayer strongerhere tonightI am no differentwithin this season(October 17, 2015) -
procreant urge
“howthe world opens for us, right through the midstof ourselves.”—Paul Celanwe are flowersopening nowas we speakunfolding intoa morning suneach momentan openingan unfoldingagain and thenagain foreverlike handsheld outofferinglove(October 14, 2015) -
Interlaced
I have nothing to offer tonight,my bones hang slack like puppetsdropped on the theater floor.Such tithes fall with soft alterations,minute differences to tangle vaguelylike the cracks along a tortoise shell;more broken auguries scatteredacross a mendicant’s bed to waitupon a new kind of prayer.Whispered ululations ribbon sorrowthrough the day’s transitional phrasesuntil we drown in its white noise.A silence drapes, like wet ash,upon every potential charma priest could mask us with.I find comfort in these shadows,the side chapels tucked alongthe familiar stations of the cross.The empty sanctuary swallowsall sounds. Even footsteps riselike bits of dust, then die.And what is death but a sigh?A return to the transient air,like leaves into the earth.I still hear the shape of hervoice, like distant outlinesof smoke between battered trees.So many traces still remain:genetic markers, slight scents,our last conversations.Fragmented nights and daysof innuendo and misinterpretationslip away in bashful innocence.My memory’s a mosaicI piece together, reshapingregret and hope, yet again.I worry over echoes whose originsno longer can be traced backto her voice laughing nearby.(October 10, 2015) -
palimpsest
we both opened to this pageas wind wanders through woodswe listen past the calligraphicswirls for meaning’s whispersto momentarily manifesta palimpsest to discernalternatives do not existlike choices and the illusionof chance not to claim fateby any means one can createas one can until possibilityexhausts itself into beingwhat decision was made beforeis as irrelevant now as thenfor argument belies an abilityreasonable and well-informedto exist beyond the rationalline which connects me to you(October 7, 2015)
subtext 