Who named it

the Universe as if

were all one thing?

It’s a huddling of parts,

planets, fires, light

twisted into forms and multiples.

I stand at night and

watch endless

stars that breathe and fall.

This is my divinity,

the Universe is always only one

but never less than all.



My therapist told me

to write a poem

about the images

in my head.

So I bared what

I was and what

I wanted to be.

(meanwhile sipping tea)

in her office, watching

her read the poem.  Her

lips moved quietly as

she read.  I was afraid

she would see all

of me.

And I hated it,

And I wanted to

go home

after sharing 

so much

with a stranger, a void,

an empty vessel for me

to fill up full, with truths and

half truths, and all out lies.



Sometimes things

are nearly over

but you have

to smile because

otherwise you’d

break into pieces like

an undoable puzzle.

It burns the way 

hot oil burns

with a splash of

and magenta and fire-purple

thrown over hands

in surrender and prayer

So I stay far from the fire now

and smile like a painted clown.


Club Life

I see them from my deck,

fashioned, alert, alight.

All getting ready 

for the disappointment 

of the night.



A crazed swallow

batters my window

again and again

attacking its own reflection

in the glass thinking 

it’s an enemy.

Of course this made

me think of you

how we broke our

beaks against fate

and feathers spun

around us, swirling

us into ugliness.

The bird slams

his body against

the glass again.

We start, and flinch

and like the bird

learn nothing.


Smoking Together at the Breakfast Table

Somehow cigarettes were

part of the meal.

Bagels and Nutella and cup

after cup of coffee,

only pausing to fully drag

a smoke and breathe it out.

Smoke wafted

from our mouths, noses,

smoke in our fresh

morning nakedness.

Smoke straying into

our hair and squatting like

a brown cancerous cloud.

We didn’t last

It ended badly.

But somehow

those cigarette mornings

we called them love.



The bones creak

at 55 and the 

muscles ache on 

on rising. 

Age comes around 

like fall rain, cool 

against the skin 

and the dark between 

my ribs. 

I wait for the sun for healing.


The Open Field

My eyes are lilies.

My skin turned to

flower flesh forcing

secrets straight

to my bright heart.

So I become a rose,

flower head with no pot

but field fresh and ready

for my growth.


Kind of like Demeter



summer’s dahlias

grow tall here

like corn in Ohio.

You can hear

them whisper

as they climb;

thick stalks

with out popping

impossible petals

that hang on.

So delicate.

So dangerous.

Then fall

and winter

comes and

sogs them

and they

all die

for a while

to the world.


“Stars 1st published in Writers Egg, “Transference” 1st published in Heroin Love Songs, “Circus” and “Smoking Together at the Breakfast Table”, 1st published in Bombfire Lit, “Bird” 1st published The Stripes Anthology, “Club Life” 1st published by Bonemilk, “Age” 1st published by Milk Teeth, “The Open Field” 1st published in Flora Fiction, “Kind of like Demeter” 1st published in Kitchen Sink Magazine.