Love and Anger, Beside the Burning Bush

One, covered in glitter like

dust, is ancienne. Aged. Cheese

and wine, from countless parties.

Revelry for existence, and how far

we came.

The other, a dance on bare feet.

Tip-toeing around the other,

ever outward. Every whirling dervish

secret that we can’t predict, like nature.

Cosmic, and hungry.

One, dried petals, and a rusty

bike chain. Old freedoms, given

in offering. Burnt auburn sunset

hair, tied back.

The other, moments raging

like the sun which only can spread.

Everything looks still from afar,

yet, you know the sparkle means something

special is brewing. An ocean stews

up a storm, just for you,

you lioness. You firebird.

Keep dancing.

Poem a day drafts 39-46 (Portraits 1-7)

Human’s gate to heaven

sits atop carved trunk

with elephantine snouts seeking

joy stick retribution  a sombre moment

with three of your kin  64 pixels

on your back  carry a heavy

load up the ammunition 

with a warm face  a trace of

gun powder promise in the air

you salivate an explosive

toggling your mind

reflecting expectations

Sound & Light

Round is a polite shape

to learn  to recite  to birth


See  de

mons escape  Allow

heaven to read them


a needlepoint  penning 

the bible  like

a fractured voice  learning

to use language

The Unemployed

craftsman  sportsman

bashed by how you are

remembered  empty  calories

consumed by sensual appetite

ah c’était bon  mon amour

ton allure sur le sol  l’étage 

recite to me your promise

to not keep a promise

whilst you drip your

water color lust

atop your bed 

I can’t stop seeing





in the mirror




All manner of




molecular bricks  laying

ashen upon table

sous le sable qui en voie

harkenings of the OUCH

Spiney leaves  me behind

in the store bought soil

digging around for  whored

out oil y skin  akin & atune

FINELY tuned whisker plants

revealing  beneath shade 

I am not the maid

February births gusts of color

An orchestra hangs

from wires

twelve sheets

none as primary as 

the last wind blown


Can you see March

Can you remember the

future Aprils & Mays

Our beasts tied to strings riding 

the joy  buoyant  billows

I can hold (the world)

your love  in loafs  I

can crunch the eccentricity &

idiosyncronisity  A symphony of

crackle  Can you believe we’ve

been baking for nearly 12 months

I am proud of the folding  I adore 

each ingredient  gradient  torchlit

fluttering cocoon  vespertine surprise

If I could  I would  & since I will

HOLD STILL  fast  Let me trickle

my love across  your mantle  crust

Poem a day drafts 23-30

Song of Mary

Welcome to Mary’s room where

love’s never been so

black & white

She’s got everything in her books

If you find a blank page then you’ll

have found a lovely light

They go on & on about nothing

Leaf after leaf, like

secrets shed

by rainfed trees

ዋርኮ ዋርኮ

Bearing the earth 

ዋርኮ ዋርኮ

Loosens our turf

Cut your teeth on

cinnamon sticks

Turmeric stains,

better run, quick!

Mary’s mind is a gate,

swinging iron, oxidizing

Disheveled roots climb to her

window; persephone’s ivies

Dare you peak over the canopy?

ዋርኮ ዋርኮ

Rhythm; your thread

ዋርኮ ዋርኮ

Shoulders ahead…

Perfect Storm

Please don’t

empty clouds into me.

Rivers run; positive & minus veins

fleeing the sky god.

Eroding the sod & soil to escape Eden.

Containment is not love.

Thunder is not victory.


tormenting the rain for falling.

Organizing water droplets, as if

rearranging earth for harvest equates sin with



Zebra; black with white stripes or

white with black. The question stares

me down on every government leaflet.

Even maple begs me to choose. It forces

a fuzzy metamorphosis 

of melanin,

for political reason. I know black is

absolute lack & white is queerness hiding

in daylight. But, nobody needs 

« White Pride » to prove the red

queen right. The mind trick, the heart 

lifted by decks of cards; stacks of

potential origami.

Lipping ink, the paper pegasus dips

her hooves into dark skies; staining

her intention with Cain sugar. 


she sheds ashen foliage. Lightning smiles,

as her cotton children dance, landing atop

the heads of travelers. Dandelion spirits

sprout in the scalp, and the traveler is infected

with his ancestor.

They will carry the seeds of stripes,

join the tribe & recognize

roaring hooves; their herd. The traveler will lay

their knapsack of knowing down,

& set up home in the trampled dirt. 

« I know you » nestles into my ears. 

I love these lines with the care

of a singe-wingéd beast, too shy to leap

from pages. 

Too proud to be defined by


Fair Trade

Folds  or  tree ring


Skirting along rigid vertebrae 

Chasing palm leaf  Wind up doll

  leaking   ba-ba 

    in Bali

Brown cherry  Roasted

  by digestion

Shall we let the sea

  swallow our seed

 Spillage  Shrinkage

  in sunlit Jakarta

Finding tourists in

  your shit

    they sure do love it here

Hey  whatever it takes

   for that brown skinned

     100% Arabica 


“I’m sleeping in a snowbank.”

Medicine for a Pretentious Asshole

You know that prickly feeling?

Your hands and feet weren’t

talking to the rest of your body;

You generate lightning from fingers by

touching someone else;

That shock is

in my chest.

It’s heaviness

from the day.

From the way you, « try

your best. »

And the way I know

I didn’t.

I wish this electric soup

in my stomach

on no one.

We gain no nourishment

from this electric soup


And, what a silly life to lead;

artist, poet, songwriter; planting

fire, hoping it’ll stop

the human-condition from

catching a cold.

Weaving stories in the night

sky, won’t buy your bread.

Painting what?

Tulips? Chimneys?

You can pick up

as many leaves off

the ground

as you want;

they don’t die when they

come to land. 

Palms are a safe place

for you, Fèy. 

So, sip the electric soup.

Let the spark wash

your insides; friction is

temporary, but Oh, how it ignites

and reminds of the why.

Why you fall

but don’t die when

you land. Why

your midnight brown

eyes call without a sound.

Why you fit so

purely in a hand.

Why do you get that prickly feeling

in your chest? That ink pen pricking

soft lump of clay?

It’s the spirit flowing back

into your heart. So, sip the soup;

it’s resuscitation; a restart.

You’ll be ok.

_e ther_ -eal – {reframed

i said i can swim well


cut to – me; panting and drowning

tasting brine, bitterness, tears

adrenaline deposits in shells


i told you i’m adventurous


cut to – me on the couch

cringing in my comfort-zone

seas of sheets; unfinished books at my feet


i declared my intelligence


cut to – me; misspelling “salary”

salarie? Sal- Proto-Indo-European root meaning “salt”

but that’s only hypothetical


i said i would _e ther_


cut to – me; leaving bread-crumbs

promises for the seagulls

vows are for the birds, after all


Poem a day drafts 15-22

Behind Thin Walls

Oh, I didn’t see you there. Welcome to our

home. The window panes are sloped so I don’t

spend my day staring at a rubbled alley. An occasional

seagull, with ink dipped wings and truth dipped bill, comes 

delivering Oceana’s secrets.

Guitar strings hang from our rafter ceiling;

they coil clockwise to stay warm, and drop

woolen autumn on our heads. 

Our paper mâché home is complete with tin

carvings of trains⟶if you wait patiently, and

think hard enough, they chug along tracks

steaming our faces. Useful, right? Oh, don’t

touch that spot, can’t you see it’s sore?

If you caress it gently, it calms right down. There,

now where was I? Ah, yes. Isn’t the moon lovely,

in their dress? The clouds make a warm shawl.

Those jewels are heirlooms I asked to borrow

some night.

We have a piece of their sun in every corner

to keep our eyes open. Do you fancy a drink?

We keep two Aquarians in our ice box,

so they stay in the past. My twin doesn’t

care for them, but enjoys their gifts.

Our floor was a silver fish, cold to the touch

when we moved in.

So, we gathered foliage from every colored plume

and painted them with sin, emeralds, turmeric 

dust. Stop! You’re leaning on the wall too much!

Your shoulder shouldn’t sink against it. Oh! 

Now you’ve gone and done it. Now we have to

clean up this mess. After we get all the

junk we stuffed, back behind our assemblage.

Plaster some band-aids, and hide the churning.

It isn’t quite vintage yet, but we were saving old fights.

The voices and the yearning could

start a fire. You never know how lonely you get,

until you start using anger to keep you company.

Alright, that’s enough. Wining and dining could stain the foliage.

So, let’s just tape this hole shut before

something ugly falls out. It’s been a while

since the storage was this full,

and my home was this


A Child’s Laugh [Haiku]

Sleeping memory

Splitting sky down the middle

Lightning Tunneling


I woke up in a strange place  My mother had

tucked me into bed  The moon was dripping

red  & adorned in cherry pit  Casm  Deep

An ocean of juiced pomegranate hearts  Dropping

seeds off at preschool  Punctuality has no place

in poetry  So  forget ticking astronomy

Rewind ovarian smile  Mothers beg for

the shattered glass spirits  Leave them

Weavable tapestries  Glow-worm behind 

sunlight  Casting stains along the tired chapel floor 

Give in to the light-bearer  Peace on string

Luciferian solstice  Understanding of the dark 

promises no illumination  So  perhaps  falling

stars must be chased  Night sky  Calls for geminid

showers  Flitting about  Humming birds with

unearthly glow  Sharing shingle arms

This odyssey isn’t over  You cast your heavy anchor eyes  and catch no fish 

There is no nourishment if the bruised blackness remains 

Unexposed film on countertop  Doors wilt when

you leave them closed  Too long  Knock twice

I don’t think she heard you  I don’t think she hears

us saying her name  Jezebell  Jezebell Jezebell

Call it off

« Hi, this is Fey. I’m calling to let you know

something’s come up; I have to cancel

my interview for today. » The rendezvous;

a momentary lapse in time. A crime that

must be punished. A chronological 

perversion. I wear the face of medusa

on my wrist. These boxes we put around

our bodies can be


if we venerate our arrow heads. These

boxes we put around our schedules

as we gallop through cocaine white

fields of paper, can be


by tattooing our 

veins with inconsequence…

october 17} revised 

a blind man would notice the 

way i looked 

at you.

halfway down the stairs you 

spun me about face
to yours..

in that moment we were 

withering leaves 


your hand  

on my lower back screamed  Venus

your puncturing voice whispered  Pluto….

this was our square, the light years
betwixt night sky

& your window

october 2018 revisited 

We were the liminality;

a hushed finality on your lips &

a tipping scale

over your guest

restroom toilet, into which

cosmic vomit spilled

my guts filled our


better than

this edible silence

I swallowed like pride.

Enjoy the bouquet of

my absence.

It’s preserved by the

saltwater between continents.

Or rather, the saltwater

rivering my face.

Hey, I couldn’t let it

stain your floor, so

I found a ladder,

& climbed out

of stagnation.

But, I left you

my old name

at the door.

& [the sun smoked himself to sleep] & – unrevised

( i hearken the spark of sunshine you salivate

 i am an unwatered seed 

of affection

,; ,;;awaiting radiance;;, ;,

 the dew drop that will activate

our insides / \ our reflections

do you notice these gradients?

 gods cry & devils dance

 what a beautiful connection

water knows the power: the introspection.

take a chance

 you gorgeous misconception )

Mr. Busy Bee revisited




































January 8th, 

Pressed shirts, 70’s jacket manufactured

in Hong-Kong, smell of fractured liaisons

faxing, emailing, smiling

through beguiling gymnastic rabbits.

I make an impression of fingertips on the glass


Andy Warhol would have ripped a vocal chord

should he have come face-to-face

with this Pintresting chaste Tim Burton

space, unevenly paced

birth-day party dressed up as

job-interview. The high How-Are-You’s

and hand-pandering shakes me to my core.

Is this the adult-world warned of

and written in diaries of mad-women

only given the choice between illegal sex-work,

and legal sex-work? Pant-suits, after all, 

are hyper-gendered stereotypic,

picturesque working mothers come to 

steal jobs. And clothing must be professional,

it’s no accident that fetishes include

uniformity. We can’t keep profession

out of the home, like Mr. Big can’t keep his enormity

away from his secretary’s mouth. But, we love

power-dynamic, don’t we?

Even when our celebrations are decaying

and the good-byes are exchanged,

the host doesn’t know if they deserve praise or shame.

Did they put on the right clothes, did they

forget their names? Haven’t they

forgotten their own! The title of their childhood!

That old home that travels with us,

staring back at us, standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror.


   Shea butter    on hand    spread bitter

          palm,to wrist,to wrist,to palm

   rivering,    weaving,    between fingers

balm against lips, war paint under eyes .

  Summon moon and traffic police light

       An Ultra Blue, ink i ng the nigh t, 

Sta lk s  of  l egs,  praying « mantis » throughout

   a dewy stone floor

  Hollow stars fall from pixel-flickering

tiny flames reflecting in

 burning nameless comet-trails down cheeks .

    Crisp paper feathering; dried lilies

                     up at me

     gazing                       from the grave .


Earth is always singing: we are always dancing.

Some believe God is inside of us all.

During the Big Bang, the bell shattered

good intention spilled out every elsewhere;

our dictionary cannot help us map the stars,

but damn, do we try

to use it.

My brain must be a 

pool of wires. I hope the connections are
secure. Should I interpret this 

creature looming over my shoulder?

Is it God? Is the devil at my fingertips?

Does my piano suffer from cognitive dissonance?

I ask too many questions. My canvas is

getting full. It’s always dripping.

I can’t help but miss the first beat. I’m too shy

to dance. So, I try to sing, too. But, Earth is much louder

than me. 

I hesitate too much. My chords are

disconnected. The progression isn’t easy to follow.

It’s hard to keep tabs on a mind that

looks in the mirror, and declares,

« I see you. »

capital H

Sun falling; light leaves unrecognized

ink blots in my eyes. I walk into a store,

wearing tuition money as a thrifted worn down

army-brown, the door-attendant asks 

« Can I help assure you walk out having spent 

the blood of your father? » She

smiles with her eyes because, her cheeks would 

shatter. I can tell she doesn’t recognize

my ink blot eyes.

I carry her question in my pocket, and my

cell-phone weighs a heavenly ton,

so I remove both. I cannot find myself

in the screen, and the junior department


For a second, in a flash, behind winter coats

and sweatpants, I see trees.

To be feminine is to be wild, fully

functional. A machine with feral wirings,

journal entries, cerebral networking, talking to 

each other. Doesn’t he understand?

I see him in the forest; Jean Toomer, 

singing a folk song, holding his walking stick,

his sugar cane. River, ocean, tides of Ophelia

would dissolve him. 

What is a man, without his stick? Do I need

guidance? Am I stuck?

I have the option of throwing myself in.

« In » a shady, empty haunting. 

He notices me, and offers his

money. Commodity. I need it. I

need it. I need it. I need

it. That blood. That sugar. That

security. I can no longer commune

with winter-bringing white.

So, I toss my scarf into the bin on my way 

out. The door-attendant rings

like a may bell, saying, « I’m sorry you couldn’t find

what you were looking for. » 

未だ Hither-to,


川 空 声は 『時間』 から

生まれた 聞こえない

風 野 追跡

そっと、名は 蒸発

炎ように揺らめき 瀧 門


静かの  雫

Equation & Conversion

giving = receiving

Anemony lungs, embracing veins

Filtering venom, passing down chains

violence ^living

Vapor waves, tanks, storebought 

Shooting pastel bullets, rainbows anchoring joy

∞ duration (feeling)

Time, effervescence, babies crying,   .

I still love you

Photographic shards of 

         glass  Fall from trees

                    cloaked in mid

winter graces  Dancing drops of

         Light is our primary currency

                    Is that still in your heart?

Does the love still fit  Do

         You remember  The language 

                    Lost  Remain  Recall  Re

Habilitate  This fledgeling desire

         Smiling  Reflecting in each of

                    These seeds  raining 

Heaven into your sugarbird nest 

         Shimmer  Argon oil  Collecting

                    Sun rays  Fool.  Weary

Traveler  Step into the light & dance

         Roots are the steady feet  of

                    Gods  &  rusty lovers

Begging for diamonds as if for mana 

          from the air  Wood  Awaken

                    Melting.  Rhythm

Poem a day drafts 1-7


They call it circulation;

this breathing. They

just forget that

circles are


These patterns

mean nothing. Even

existence is gasping and

screaming in the dark.

Spilled absence and

lung-distilled air;



Helios and Chronos

both kept on the calendar;


of the other. Flybys

measure days, count years;

toils and harvest are

the sum of a man.

On the third rise in June when

the summer sun begins

its rotting hobby,

North America tells this sun

to celebrate how many

rings Saturn has


One band

and two bands

and now three. This

is the value of a man.

How long he can

hold his breath

until the father

opens his



   Marbles t o s  s   e  d

  from m a  r   b   l    e

 co u  n   t   e   r    s 

 Peb bles 

    f a ll

   fr    om

 e   a     rs .

Logique: « J’ai rais on de sentir

             to come home

                      is to lose

                         motive. »

Intuition: « J’ai be soin d’Ex pander

            t he se n se s .  »


     lilies petal

       do you   glue

       t h e  s h r a p n e l  

   back   onto 

the bulb ?

Bold people 

« fleurer à la chance

   of dis in tegrat i on . »


f o r mu la f o r 

perfect dissociation.

A new world, A new 


    Zenith opposes

          the path we


to our core.

And our earth,

       small orb, 

   a child’s toy

rests in the


of whomever

didn’t drop





My heart is

frozen again. It’s

too scared to go 

forward. And I’m

tripping on its strings;

violin wires, in the key of 

high e. It’s petrified permafrost, 

drifting along open sea.

A shrill ship bow,

stern and true,

scrapes off more

music than it

can chew. Now

sink. There, that

feels good, doesn’t it?

To think, you thought 

this voyage would

be simple, and

your vessel



Icebergs are

grand gestures

of love; not your usual

dowry, but it’s me.

And, you say

we’re a we.

So the least you

could do is learn to 

sing on key. Perhaps,

the resonance will 

shake just right.

And we’ll wear







Clean, transparent

Charred, awake

Meteor-shower (not made for wishing)

Blood-bath (not made for fishing)



Wasting time,

Stayin’ alive

Betty Crocker croaked

You shouldn’t smoke

Right to live

Right to die

Silly, we all know how to lie

I can’t help but feel

somebody’s watching

Tie it together for me, would ya?

In a pretty bow? I

don’t know how to grow, I

don’t know where to go

from here. I was never

punctual. So, spare me

the lecture. I want to cry

when I need to cry.

I need to run

when I want

to run.

So stop

trying to 

suck me dry.

I’m dripping, and 

I won’t apologize for

the passion I lost on your

floor. Because I’m a bubble-born

Snow-flake, too good for you, too 

good-for-nothing. But, this is a new

year. There’s always a new generation

for you to fear. I’ll keep it accurate, 

and focus on truth. I’ll get off the

soap-box, if you do too.


I can still feel still feel

these words these words

breadcrumbed lovers in youth in youth

I would steal away away

sipping echinacea under snow under snow

I harvest mud mud

clinging boots boots

in the dozing sunlight sunlight

a shier blue than my spirit my spirit

what narcissus would give his own give his own

mirroring passion is easier is easier

than creating it from the thin winter air winter air

is still in my lungs in my lungs

wherein lies my tie my tie

to my core my core

idyllic light dustings and deep freezes deep freezes

February was an icebox left open left open

it whistles my name my name

that I almost forgot almost forgot


Lip Drip, Spill Mind’s Cup

We Overflow with the Day

Leap into Cocoon


Figures of black

running from the mirror

that is a lake,

under moongaze.

Bow to her, offer no fear,

feed the earth your tremble; your shake.

Don’t get near

her milky haze.

You’ll be lost in hair.

Her braids are no road; it’s unclear

how one makes it back

through the mind’s maze. 

They call her Eau Claire,

her children, her deer.

The ink stains; figures of black.