this is not the blue sky poem i wanted to write,

but this is where i was, Michael.

skank of breathing my own skin,

wiping dirty windshields. opening m&m bags,

$10 cabs.

locked in. car windows cracked.

peeing foolish thoughts into a bush,

dis-connected from worlds,

‘neath an alkaline sky

strangely buzzing with night lights humming.

[44 for d’Verse]

bird cage gratitude

nobody knows how many

eggs i’ve swallowed. they are

somehow (mis)taken by my

calculated smile,

by a thing restrained, not

contained. my abdomen

has lived for a very long time

spouting picean horoscopes,

migrating through false loves,

paddling through winter hatreds.

let’s be clear. a hundred houses

of taloned claws is happening

for me, not to me. my mouth is a

black swallow, a smoke show

incensed with clarity and acceptance,

I wing daftly without confusion or chaos

pausing lightly here. then there,

paying bird cage gratitude

for all humans with open doors.

[for TSM #126]

navigator kit

salivary glands are deeply ingrained,

thoughts reinforced early in years . . .

fill the mouth with your enemy. swallow

what smells foul. hunt for what

you need. acceptance

is the way of a fox. forgive

a fox for flight, for carrying a flacid

feather between gritted teeth.

this is also who you are. no

fool. you’re learning how to navigate

filth, soft-footing on.

[for #125 TSM]

like this

it’s always cold like this and that’s why you’re here

eternity’s snug, given sheets, given i make you warm me like this

i did meditate on the storm for so long that my leg hairs grew long and black

and i was wrong (remember my face sunk with joy when i cut them?)

i’m not making it up ~ the sun wraps around tangled branches ~ and you,

you love me like this, like a light so exact i see the animals i am

maybe of claws, maybe of feathers; one clipped wing i stole, and pasted it like this

[for d’Verse Poets]

Before bees & peonies

Be lusty with my heart, love.       In the 5am hush, don’t flinch.

Be generous with your mouth, love.           Without vocal chords

spell Tuesday across my skin like it’s a piece of paper.     Oh, whatever day

it is, breathe it nimbly,              nipple to back, forearm to foreskin,

all the hairs of yours      woven together with mine       in the language

of a slow rising sun,           faithful                across my body’s horizon.

Break over me.

[for d’Verse]

plowshare words

concerts of yellow

clutch at my throat

they make me mad,

they make me think about

all the foolish things

we’ve done,

like believing we were special,

like full on mouths panting,

like how i never stopped aching

to be warm,,,

so what if i am one off?

so what if i’m coming up from

the pastures of boredom?

this cocksure sun is erect

and shining like wheat

making me want

to chop every word

into heart throbs

[#123 for TSM]


i never noticed, . dragging collected crust from the bottom ridge of my left eye onto my middle finger. it’s smudge, . magnaminous.

i stand atop linear, parallel bones. a small red comma staples my stable toe. i’ve recently had to break shit in. you. it’s an atrocity, the scarred

sky looks like perma frost. , it’s negative about everthing. me. then, today, the devil hit a wall, . changed my mind. i appreciate that

most every sunset is a smite. my eyes, my palms, will never be rid of raised lesions. it bothers him, and i’m still soft, so sometimes i cut

myself with nail clippers,, . it’s fine. everything almost always grows back. like my nettled haystack hair i put honey on last week in the shower.

some days i want to cut everthing : my bangs, the bushes, my teeth, ties to my parents., my brother an asshole. let’s not talk about my skin.

I’m uncomfortable at night

In a suffering sling-back chair I play Pac-Man, figuring things out. I’m becoming who I’m supposed to be with a joy stick in my hand. Scares the words out of me, really, to die in a corner by a ghost gobble.

With a child’s activity kit I weave pot holders on a plastic loom. Over-under, over-under. I increase loops. Can pulling yarn tightly make me trust myself more? Can scalding objects be decreased by handiwork and a crochet hook?

ghosts waft in
through open windows
~ summer sweats

[for d’Verse]

real things

what if we were
real, like a deeply
right watermelon donut

or what if we had good
bone structure like
the Fox theatre, or a Dr.

what would you
say if i told you to
let your child out
on needles highway?

you wouldn’t say it after
you saw the soft hairs
on their arms kissed by
the halo of the sun

what if we were a basketfull of
baubles (doorknobs really) except
we rivaled vintage water, and
galaxy pink skies everywhere?

what if it took me all afternoon
to spread over a field, to
walk by the sea, to identify
with a blue-bird planked picnic table

ars longa, vita brevis; how long
should i look at the world, before
you believe that a blue moon, that a candy
apple glow are among the real things?