Wednesday, December 31, 2014


Kiss me,
airport style.

Pretend our hearts
are breaking.

Make like
you and I
are a dance
of stars,
the fated breach
of gravity
and time.

Then say

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

The things you write in the dark, after drinking two margaritas

I get tangled in what
I want to say

Her poems were too
much like
the hair
left in a brush

The switch from first to third:
a writer's oldest trick


I want to write boldly, 
like the earthquake
and not
the seismograph 

I want to rattle
the cage,
Explode from 
the branch

I want to be the hair
coursing down the long
switch of her back

The fever,

before a sweeter 

God, let me write
and not be constricted
by the what 
and even less
by any whom

Let me smash that dam
into atoms,
recycle it into

Let me break myself, 
in perpetuity,
and free the awful flow

and carry it forward 
until I can't

and kiss the end

of the road

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

Waiting Game

out at the lake,
and everything's the same
dispirited shade of

picnic-table brown 

except for the water,

whose Crayola hue is 
the slightly more colorful
dirty sock soup

But the pines
will maintain,
as stiff as saints

and the sky
still startles
to the provocation
of crows

and it's fine,
in its way

this waiting game

I'll take the crumbs
that fall my way

like a want
of horse flies
to chew up my legs

the promissory sun  
after a week of rain

and a few crusty leaves
that just refuse, 
by golly,
to budge 

Which is the kind of old lady
I hope to become

though that, too,
can wait 

Saturday, December 6, 2014

Childish things

What if 
instead of his color
we saw first
the two arms,
the two legs,
the two eyes 
of a man

Or a kid
just like us
trying hard 
to be big,
trying not 
to show doubt

What if
the hardness of trying
became a defense
of what our families
had filled us with

What if
instead of his color
we saw our own fear
and alienness
reflected back
like a photo's negative 
held up to the light

What if the shock
made us throw up 
our hands:
shot through
with pain, shame,

What if #blacklivesmatter 
were #whitepeoplesproblem

What if poems were cover

What if games of pretend
were the law

and empathy became 
policeman to all

Wednesday, December 3, 2014


(Photo by Paul Rockett)

Beneath the crust
of first December

I went yawning for
some inspiration

when I saw the ghost  
of Glenn Gould's hands

and felt the echo of
a reflection of Bach

run across the roof
of my mouth

to make of me
a church