Friday, June 23, 2017


To write the great American nothing, you must have a mind of summer. This is the same as the great American no. Then you can feint and move sideways, into and out of the light, as you see. To write with your brain instead of your hands, one must go forward into the cave, release the ragged speakers there, and kneel on the memory altar. There you will be burned, and you will not return. That is what you must desire, to write the great American ever. And to write it you must also whisper after snakes, vanquish the bummy holidays, and go faster after death. He will catch you cheating, and you must chuckle, and nudge him with your comforting knife.

Tuesday, May 09, 2017

Holding Shroud

Spring was about how we opened. Sliding doors and midnight rain. Our hands entwined and wisdom in the shooting of slight glances. In the humid doom, I watch you fall asleep with my lips against your lips. And fate is not a cake. Drinking in your new world is alive with me, as we wander this museum of violins and chance. Ashes drift down from our campfire and little frog voices lift us above the early dew. It’s not random, but just a little bit more than nothing, in this pitching bucket of stars. 

Monday, May 08, 2017

Somewhere, A Harmonica

“I was the awkward guest everybody hardly knew.”
From “The Burning Girl” by Mary Karr

I was the pink kid’s tambourine, and the sun that you could only look at sideways. I was the frozen winter clarity you sought, to clear your head. I was the last best option, unto death. I was the freaky way you moved your arms when you sensed the mosquito at your ear, that June Saturday, when we were twelve and trying to build our own flying saucer in the yard. I was the hammer that lost its handle, and the bedroom window that kept banging in the wind. I was the friendly way the truckers always waved when driving by our house. I was the worried dream you woke from, forgetting where your heart was positioned in your body. I was the striped shadows that wandered across the floor at night, and the sound of the little bell on the rust-red cat. And I was the cluttered attic that waited for you, when you needed to cross over to the world of memory. 

Monday, March 13, 2017


This will be written on the body. Our body, surrounded by spirits and wind, long in voice and happy in mountain air. This bending form is always from now on, but also yesterday. Our arms the desert, our legs the jungle trees, our breath the urging wind. All the spaces between us, charged with electricity and rain. For this is the pause after the outbreath, after the poem, and whatever you there is, and whatever me there is, drift away, return, drift again. The way is to churn and bumble, say the silence, and begin.

Wednesday, March 08, 2017

Because I Never Stop

My own black heart is yours, because of the break in protocol. I saw that green line down the middle of your face, and your wide dark earrings. You handed me a knife, smiling, and I gathered up my grins. I took them long, into the aisles of this grey dog winter. You let me find my own big hero, someone who could hold me when I needed to cry out the anti-kiss. Now my broken feet are stronger than ever, running alongside that old carriage, over mounds and cornices. The mix of dust and sweat kicks up busted windows. You watch me trip. I’m all in you.

Wednesday, March 01, 2017

How Do I Stop?

Yes To The Window

Break the heart. Break the head. Break the room. Toy up the thought: no one will come home again. Burn the ballands, in lone moments, your eyes packed with tumbled fears. This is the avalanche of lifetimes. Your hands so plush with loss your neck could snap, a dried reed in a summer breeze. Yes to the window that opens to grey and thunder.

Friday, February 24, 2017

A Thicket

Danger Decides

Thursday, February 23, 2017


Wednesday, February 22, 2017

The Week Of Inter-Species Biting

Fist their kid bit our kid. Then our kid bit the dog and the dog bit him back. Then (how to say this?) the couch bit the steak I was trying to cook. That had us biting each other and the halls between the bedrooms. When the dog started biting the TV, we both (simultaneously) ran for our passports at the backs of our desk drawers and bit them to shreds. We tried to cry about it, but the week was long, and there was still so much biting left to do. My teeth burn if I’m not sinking them into plaster, or a camera, or your cheek. Even now. Don’t come near me. I’m running at you. 

Almost Ready Now

Monday, January 09, 2017

A Dissipating Mist

I suppose there is at least one way to kill a song. It involves making the cat the practical matter in the downed tree. The trunk goes away with the mess and I tear something off, like the fragment of a wish. Then a colloid of ghosts holds the handle and I clean the bottom of the world. It means and rankles. It has to be this way, but something isn't right: the way the building storm takes to the fields and dances. The stranger thing is when I have my way with a song, it becomes something I think on, but it emerges from waking life as skinned and shuddering. Another tilted house. Not dead at all, I expect, but certainly beyond me.