A moment unfolds
its petals to the ground.
Crisp brown edges
a faded red:
always somewhere,
never here,
tightly curled
upon 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) -
grounded
by
I eat dirt in handfuls overflowinglike water. The grit grinds betweenmy back molars. The black taste cloysthickly along my gums like claypulled from the Trinity’s wet banks.What heaven there is is here with mewithin the rich earth’s layered grain:the heave, and buck, and jostlealong the muscular fault linesflowing for miles beneath the skinof the world. Here is no needfor humility. We are enough;it is enough that we are herebeneath the unattainable stars.(October 6, 2015)
-
inner voice
as if withan articulateguest he argueswith aireach moment insharp contentionlike a steelsliding alonga knife’s edgeuntil he eviscerateshimself againand then againwith unforgivingsighsevery faux pasevery fault pulsateslike sneers ripplingalong a smileeach word mouthedrepetitivelyto painful precisionsslicing what’s saidinto thinner andthinner stripsuntil his wordsfall meaninglessbelow tattered whiteflags flutteringflecked with bloodamong the dyingand the deadin yet anotherdistant battlefield(October 1, 2015) -
Talk to Me
“Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak; Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit, Smother’d in errors, feeble, shallow, weak, The folded meaning of your words’ deceit.”— William Shakespeare, Comedy of Errors“… the ideology they are forced (in order to make symbols, hence in order to live) to borrow from the class that dominates them.”— Roland Barthes, The Pleasure of the TextI want to speak with you againto shape my words to your tongueto be enveloped in the kissof your mind then forgetall which has come betweenuntil no space exists to separatewhere we are and what we desirebut there are no words so clearso free so resonate to tracetrembling fingers along our skinor erase the edges of distancehesitant and mispronouncedthat we can speak into our silenceuntil we once again fall in love(September 26, 2015) -
advice to myself
“The best work we can do is to withdraw the projection of our shadow onto others.”–Carl Jungembrace your personal clichéssmother them with awarenessit’s hard enough to be honestwith yourself so forgive othersand do not fix your anxietiesonto friends with hope of creatingyour salvation in their skin
