I’m eating marzipan with a Hohokam in Venezuela.
A day that should be true but life’s not so fantastic.
Drinks with friends at the bar to me is more like it.
Weed over tea is fine too.
Dream large and see colossus. See greatness.
Eat candy with the Gods in faraway places,
and leave a trace of your joy there
for those who wander
seeking the warm skin of wonder.



this evening drifts like candlelight
spilling the night into
the dark center of the sun
a flickering point of light to rise upon


For Lasara

As I look to the moon tonight
I see the white of your skin,
the pink of freckles, and the pearl -like glow
in the moon of your heart.
It’s gibbous and you are tinged with shade,
bone-white turned shadowy
but somehow luminous.
I find my love there. I find my star.



The way the light
drips translucent rain
pure as a pearl
her eyes seek me.



the dawn sun
is a big mandarin orange
waiting for one
pithy bite to shine



“You seem sad today.”
“No just thoughtful.
Thoughtful about
the spin of being
and when will it
raise me up I wonder.”



I pray time
will have it that I will feel full again,
and like some dead heart of a car
I’ll jump start right into God.


Notes for Our Children

Illness, fires, wars;
these things that
come in the end
exacerbate our shame.
We light the match
and the world
goes up in flame.



My doubt rebels
but my cries invite.
And still the god arises.

End Times
In the coming days
the grail shall be
the devil’s dustbin.
Filled with ashy filth —
what we become, dirt
funneling in angry wind.
The staff shall be
a rainforest spindled
into one burnt talk-stick
used as a club
to kill Mephistopheles
with a skull tap.
I pray to God and
her child for


Ten years on a photo
of me in the desert of my affection,
laughing with what looks like joy.
I remember faking it
like calling into work sick
when you’re just tired.
Blue sorrow etched deep into my forehead.
My smile rises in dark repose.
And you can almost touch my mouth,
sad and quiet as an inert star.


A Walk in the Park

The rain has stopped.
Sun and wet and warm descend,
or is it from the world
under upcoming
with a bunched up fist.



I can speak from the knock of my boots,
crazily tapping the dust
and I do not stumble;
I spell our love there.
These letters leap up,
my voice rises with them
and my voice screams:  joy.



“Marzipan” and “Space” first published in Writer’s Egg Magazine