Sunday, March 25, 2018


the first cup was made of wood
the second, bone
we are made of bone
therefore, the first cup was made of bone
(and palm skin, muscle, hair, and nail)
a leaky cup with cracks between curving fingers 

i want someone to open a shop and call it
The Bone Cup, for we all need drink
and it would be better if we all drank
nearer to one another

i imagine a tall building with long rooms,
a blue door and a brass knob
with no lock or key, but a knocker,
bells and a WELCOME mat woven
in every language and fiber

every room is full of rounded tables
none touch except when placed into Pangaea parties,
but everyone sits and smells and breathes the same air,
shares the same sight and light and sound

in the middle of this place, by the stairs, 
a fountain pours rainstorms and river rapids and ocean tides,
while electric fans hang and spin a breeze
and orange lamps sing the songs of infant suns

pigeons, gulls and cardinals
rest on the green moss roof, while
stray cats and dogs and rats wait
for scraps on the cobblestone steps
and by the windows that drip
with condensation and conversation

shelves from sinking ceiling to creaky floor
hold stained cookbooks, novels, books of poetry,
religious doctrine, philosophy, and art history
with ledges and cabinets and pantries
crowded with clay pottery
and paper pictures of babies
and children, freckled old men 
and soft old women, 
pictures of mountains, sky, skin, 
sin, and piles of paper for writing, 
pots of herbs, flowers, and leafy houseplants,
washed out jugs, worn mugs, wooden spoons, 
and plates of chipped porcelain 

in mouth, thought is sorted and placed
into lines of words that form sentences
like armies of peaceful protesters across
narrow tables marked by brown circles
and white scratches and carved letters
to God and government and old girlfriends

in mind, idea is met and made into civil understanding
and the agreement of nonviolence and yet
every day, tears flood the shop until 
we are all in boats rescuing one another 
for only then do we start holding on to one another
saving one another

Wednesday, March 7, 2018


the winter sky 
sags and sways and swells
before unbuttoning its 
tweed-smoke belly 
to reveal boorish gray 
bristles and the wiry 
wrinkles of this
our circling history

once open
out flies and spins and falls
an exodus of small 
silent sequin angels
of water and vapor and dust 
sewn into delicate skirts 
of satin and silk and tulle
pulled into polyester 
tights, frothy sleeves 
and coarse wedding veils

in the morning 
batter the white
while trucks with salt
(sucked from the sea)
scatter the white
piling and collecting
no longer left to meandering
all the girls into lingering puddles 
of silt and steam and ice

when they rise, they rise 
from slippery quarry stones
blooming meadows
wide maples
moss and mountains
from narrow roads
oak bark folds
gutters, pelt, and pine
from miles of sidewalk
public garden plots and 
abandoned coal mines
from oily alleyways
cold rivers and lonesome valleys
they rise and rise 
as they have since they first rose 
and filled the sky 
with white velvet pedals

i was born 
still I keep pretending
to be pretty
while the sun warms me
burns and blinds me
and the sky bathes me
of my insincerity

perhaps i am
as unique as the pressed 
tear of a cloud
while too a person 
(just another person)
in this incalculable scattering crowd 
painted and covered
plucked and brushed
still meeting my complexity 
with earnest curiosity

i want to be
brave and naked
settled and in flight
falling and melting
while stitching my wounds right 
and tight with a smart intention 
and a spontaneous vulnerability
and i want to remember 
that what we hide
is what others seek 
and what others seek
is to know 
that they are not alone
that yes, we are all 
a little broken

Friday, March 2, 2018


Image result for honey bee

We listen
as it raps and
stumbles into the kitchen
lamps, lamps that look like
wide open tulips with round
metal petals and lit bulb centers.
The hive is outside, up on the roof
of the house beside the chalky brick
chimney. There is no hive inside this house,
no waxen globes strung from ceiling beams,
no stamens, no pollen, no pistils, no queens, no bees,
only houseplants and wall paint, three people, a dog,
fabricated fibers, leggy spiders, foreign fruit, paper flowers,
air, wood and the maps we draw daily with ink, skin,
hair, crumbs, crayons, sound
                                           and shadow.
So how long now before he becomes another
body bent beside the window glass,
dry and light as a brown leaf,
still and stuck as a stone,
empty of life and of