Wednesday, June 5, 2013

tarot psalms 3:1

cast shame from your wings honey bee
what do you know about love 19 days old?
cheek to cheek nose to nose
grazing misty makebelieve sounds in the shape of future

drum me a heartbeat made of distance
                        recipes cut with letting go
fractured silhouettes
strange-familiar and tales                        of last time flights

fancy that—
                        her elements shift like sand

where no house may stand


and the space                                                                        is back

the mystery was never what it could be

it is only ever been what it isn’t

                                                         in these eyes there are glass shards
                                                         made of possible—refracting
                                                         the surface of things—distorting
                                                         even the simple shapes—piecing
                                                         light into sense—stitching

                                                         love                        a new face

Monday, May 6, 2013


heal       (me)       us


with hands--gypsy--smoothing doubt
pressing doubt into blood
till it boils love rock and roll and stone

press us into home

Friday, May 3, 2013


press the tip of this sentence
against your thigh
working it round with commapause

the small of your back--where i place parenthesis's) (
dovekisses and breath

the words lowered from lips to hips ride sideways
like a bad haiku made of too much
tumbles into prose and spits scent buried in electric fur
tricked out conjunctions heartlocked into exclamation point

cuz when this poem finds you and that place
made of wave and lightening and petals
peachrose and depth

the tip of this sentence (will Gasp!---)
falling gracelessly across heartcages and spent sheets
paper dolls flat on one another

Monday, June 20, 2011

the sprinklers are working a little bit now

cleaved in half
self-surrender: part two
vacate awkward sacrifice of bodymind left slipping over choice and ravaged decision

meaning: the country of our countenance is haggard city night
with gray matter splattered against choice alley walls and treeless endings

it is not by fellowship in the chapel we have come to this conclusion–so far removed from the plains
of our beginning
hotly beginning with the last letter of mercy y y y y y y*

The odd suffocation of you and i across the room so wide built by the tides
the restriction of dense population and custom–the tradition of lying
to sound like we know--
like we might have clues
to how it all began

introduce uncertainty--the wild resurrection of embracing sound and movement
coalesce into bold new making of wordparts, suckerpunch the cordial south right out of the mouth of gentility
and make it real make it feel like something worth doing
like action is valor-- the daring heart of risk and her sister fortitude

strike chord into glances so when the eyes meet forgetting is not an option stranger
and neither is letting go

what is this poem about but bravery and heartcranks
chapelmaking fingertip calluses to ease the pain of
sewing self anew

Sunday, April 10, 2011

our own voice
composed mostly
of sweet grass and lemon drops

what a delicate treat this sound is sure to be!

Monday, February 21, 2011

temple talk

swift flight south
the orange temple song
balled up and wasted in a field
of clouded sway

rocky mountain cliff song
little girl feet step
around trees with roots
like the knuckles of giants–
giants who roamed longstride
bellowsonging about how the ages
get smaller
with time
separation of space

the hill country songs bedded like rocksoil
in hide-wearing folkpeople
the two step and wicked jazz that passed over
during sunday dinner–
possum eyes glint night light

the feature of withered faces windtorn and blown
half asunder by splintered labor
knelt at the temple singing songs
of how things are
and were and are going to be
temple talk language like color
like a blanket in the regions

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

at my wits end
with my head growing sideways
against the ground
for noise

maybe for a stampede
of Great Things happening
or maybe it was the sound of railroad ties bending metal-ache
humming trains sounding like soft distance
carrying cargoboys hitching rides with hobos
to better places a little greener than their wasteland

or maybe I am listening for a white horse
hooves all pounding against the hard soil
sweating and toiling
so I won’t have to
ready to ride into a distance that doesn’t bend
where the sun never sets fully, just sits
looking nice
peeking above the never reached red horizon

wanting existence to curve into your shoulder nice and warm is like that
except for when the ghosty figures of maybe what if and remember her, him and that other thing were not standing stock still surround us
making us remember
mind speed drifting out of NOW
into some fakebelieve world of itcouldhavebeen

time stands still like that—silent taunt making fun
all in your face yet can’t be touched--
but if it could—time be touched
I’d suckerpunch it right in the chin
give it a good one two with my
‘hey, you thought I was a goner for sure,
but look at me building a bright future
without all those memories littered on the ground making me stand

yeah, I know time, what it does
what it doesn’t do
my little framed perspective
keeping company
keeping beat
setting a pace for my imagination to keep---….

I wonder how many lives I have lived
we have lived
hoping it more than one
with so many
paths yet untraveled
growth unraveling choices as much or more than it brings

travel me smooth world
my little prayer to the universe
beckoning desperate magic
sight and love
beckoning spells and tumblewords
fullbone strong
ready to break noise
into smooth silent movement