Friday, January 05, 2018

New Poem in Matador Review

Hello friends.

Happy New Year!

I’ve just had a new poem published in the Winter 2018 issue of Matador Review.

Sunday, December 17, 2017

Every Wish

Monday, November 27, 2017

Morning More Softed


I’m just funny the way you like me, the way you dance. Your golden hair is all ablaze next to the lake in summertime. I sit smiling, cluttered with green leaves and tiny white flowers. The little bell you laugh gains momentum, barrels into us as we hold hands down old times. It’s this way for about a generation. Then we sleep.

Monday, October 30, 2017

A Bit Of Space

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Condor In Gel Time

I’m using this truth to cover this lie: that your power is gliding around inside me: a condor in gel time. The far-seeing eyes and boaty wings are all our final loving in need. These water drops on my face are lit by the wishes I wish in the sun. Here is that moment I thought I’d lost, a little sugary thing that smells a bit roasted, a bit autumnal. A moment for only me that submits to your hands the way I draw them. Somewhere a volcano still doesn’t care. Somewhere a dinosaur bone is bulldozed. The heat of your face, your snake of a scarf, I pull you away from dinner. Hang on me while the world buckles, glittering grave.

Sunday, September 17, 2017

I Do Need Terror

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Tangled Cup

Today is that backwards day. The day you are your father and you are for real walking through that bright blue door. Take your hand and see what’s outside, in trees and teeming. Candles, yeah? Tiny fingers flashing in air. You hear that crack and stand as an X while leaves move through you. Clouds descend on everything you love. Nothing breaks but goes reckless over the world.

Monday, August 28, 2017

Last Minute On The Train

That’s when we meet. A gathering of sand. You lean forward, holding your arc of breath for that first step into the rain. I salute the breeze as our momentum warps together. It’s together already on this planet, and in this galaxy, which will one day meet another galaxy. Mergence. A double curve of stars to bend forward into time. What breathes then? 

Thursday, August 24, 2017

Crisp Life

Everyone has a secret. You could put your hands in mud and just draw circles all day and that would be a perfect depiction of your characters. The arc of this is what you want to feel about your art: proud to make the effort. You call your general tendency The Part That Doubts (the flood, and everywhere). Heaven is a little fool that triggers lightning behind your eyes. It exists when you pretend that you do. Watch the tide roll in, riding violins. Behind the rain a little static punches up the volume. Making is containing the quiet long enough to get home.

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Shadows Are Fins

All block gatherings, this solitude that puts heart in my feet. Am I my own companion, am I the one who sees or the one who obscures? This part of me that rivals my bones, is it my wobble of thought? I shadow my face in the moon and then the moon goes away. Just an icon. Then time itself whistles on a line. Time whistles on a line. Time is my known known, but I am in the midst of it so there is only getting out, or sleep. In the weeds we fell, green and wet in darkness, next to our hoping bed. Then the crushing sounds. We, you, me, all these eyes, all these parties that want to get to the bottom. A hard thing is to heft the weight of being without lights to feel around. The sparking blue, crackling the continuous question. Always in some fight, I shadow myself along the breakline of dawn. I am here in the last gilded glimmer of night. I am not here. There is only this tendency to plan, to run and be stone.