there he is
my chest expands
talking to a group of men

when I walk up to him, he won’t be real
never right in front of me, always steps away

there is a desperate scream that comes out bound
i am listening to a child, dying
there is horror that the sound is coming out of my own mouth

and it is the sadness trying to kill me
it is the sadness saying that there will be a hole forever
that i will never understand what to do with it
to know where love ought to go

and tomorrow it will be gone

poem, poetry, Uncategorized


it is good for wind to work on something.
taking time. all things get smooth and small,
and all things want for caress.
sitting for hours, working it through with your fingers
until it is done and you’ve made something
a daisy chain, or a pair of shoes —
or, by pushing your thumbs away and hanging on
to the creases of something’s face
it’s not so much another face
as it is the properties have changed
and you might not remember something anymore
the author always said: the real umbilical cord to the past was eaten!
that means it’s in something’s stomach now.
can you imagine an umbilical cord with a prefrontal cortex? god.
for something to become tired, it must be worked down.
after mumbling, there is silence. the mind is setting.
if you are sleeping and something is talking to you,
you may mind or not, after all.
poem, poetry, Uncategorized

the infinitive

what is more maddening
than a curtain held with tape to a window?
each corner beginning to fall off
and i am stuck to watching!

let me hum in to the future; i find it thrilling —
instead of saying “I explode” you say “I will”
or place that thought out on a dock in the fog at dark: to explode 
infinitive/forever! oh my god
the thought brings tears to my eyes

even better
when a promise is delicate,
posed as a gentle truth
i seize it with a gasp – that’s me!

it sways in me
i might be sick
but i am better off knowing it was there all along
and i was just waiting for it to come to me, that’s all

as it goes humming above your head
there may be light in it, but no matter

poem, poetry, Uncategorized

someday, june will bear spores

it’s a cow-head thing in drawings but,
in pictures it looks like any organ
a red sack and tubes that glimmer wet under light

connected to one thing, or another
a part of something else; alone, nothing at all
is there something to it?

when this bag fills and bursts…
i’ve been there. i forget to yell, so angry at my mother, but,
the good screams come from you

sometimes we are afraid there’s
not enough to go around
what about if there’s no more ______ ?
what would all this be like without your sound?

take it from me
june, that’s what i learned the woman’s cry is

an inside a mother’s fear: do you pity me for doing it? 


poem, poetry, Uncategorized


i could only tell them what i meant
if i
trusted the way my self looked in the other’s eyes

this is still true
coping, scrounging, what is the difference?
what is the difference between? i asked on every thing,
hung there on each thought
inside that steering quality of the tangent through the mirror behind the eyes
now and then poked at by the body’s attempt to quell the disjunct with sighs
or tears, perhaps, and then, for many, with a tepid anger
picture me thinking, that’s what i’m saying:

i was never 17, not anymore
or anything else, every day
and therein you feel you may be rising
here is the hump of the camel
you are old enough to find you are
getting hit and liking it
as long as there is pleasure in that

it is rather disgusting to be so singularly ripened
it is rather obvious and eyes care to puncture or steal such scenes of pliability
not cherish it

that is why the pasture is preferred by most
see there, no rabbit and no cricket
not a mention of the fragile turn of sex and the willingness and the bending down and the kneeling
what’s it like to be a cornered thing? on the fringe of being eaten
i watch it like watching the abandon with which a child cries
my eyes trusting the way terror looks in the child’s eyes

and pleasure comes strangely, pleasure comes
in the decorated space of difference
for the first time you saw it as the carcass with a spirit in it
the regalia of the novel thingness of every thing

poem, poetry, Uncategorized


i came upon the absurdity
as a hedge at the back of the park
i could think of nothing else
but to rub upon it and depart

i came upon the absurdity
in the severed corner of an old brick wall
i could think of nothing else
but to lick the composite stark

and suddenly the absurdity fled like a rabbit
between my husband’s eyes
where time had burrowed and
love was good enough
for about a moment more

i came to it in a book
and nearly caught its hind
caked in mud and running
for its life