rhymes of time

words slip
slippery lips
upon a pale
slope of
sliding skin
wet with aching
trails hoping
to reach past this

watching all things move


pry open jaws biting brine
rhymes of time repeating.

oh the woes we weave
trying to stop
the inevitable loss
we know will come if
they don’t halt
their foolish progress
toward false prophecy.

rhymes of time

Indian Summer

That flash fire in January has come.
The touch of warmth that sooths
Like a trickle of warm liquid just drip
dripping down the spine.

A small taste, a tease, a tickle of
spring to surge.

Like gentle lips brushing across an eyelid.
Quick licks that smell like lavender.
Subtle strokes in that soft spot where the neck comes to rest.
A teasing taste of delight, of dance, of
perfection in contact.

The months to come stand like soldiers before the lusty red coals
that will bring warmth, sex-filled flesh, fantasy formed figures
reeling in the hot
days that lend themselves to delight.
Lend their guiding touch toward freedom.
Lend their dawn, their noon, their setting to fulfilled longing.
To nature covered days, mud covered nights, and saltwater sweat.

Yes. That flash fire in January has come.
And soon,
soon the sprinkling will cascade.
The warmth flowing like a cataract to cover all with delirium
and a halcyon daze.

Indian Summer

Green Hole


Step…I see a meadow.
Green bellow
Green as far as the eye can seen.
Taste is green
Smell is green
All is green

They said ozone was green
Hole in the ozone
Hole we must close
Hole we did as told

My nose its filled
With just ozone
Green all is green
It’s crunchy Yes!

I like it. Crunch Crunch
I’m making a hole
And look Yes! Look
Down I see down I see!
Brown below and blue
And gold and red and…

Hole. I’ve made a hole…!

Green Hole

Bird Song


Birds don’t always sing sweet
Sometimes they cry.
Their song sung
Soft from their feathers
Moans bellowed before flight
Tears before the air.

I saw a crow once.
Squawking at an owl.
The crow loud and angry
Screeching beak bared,
His wings flared.
The owl turned and stared
His black head paused
Stunned at her glare.

Birds don’t always sing sweet.
The hoot does not always mean meat.
The wind flows with movement
Tones of emotion like
Notes on a page, words of matter;
Stone, aether, water and fire
Elemental mixes like chemical
Potions that intoxicate;
Like moxie, music, migrations;

At their finest, Eros.

Bird Song

No to You Me.ans Me

This must be it, you know, you know
Your final act
Your final word, your final cut
You, whoever you are
You beast
You cruel to be faced
No beast is too good for you
Beast is made of sinew and flesh is animal
You are worse than animal
You have no nature
You are rose then crew
You have no love for even
The wood the stone, your own skin
Nothing of Nature

My will to hold is dying
Again and you know it.

Why is this? Do you want me?
Or is it the want to watch
Me go, to fall, that is so hot?

Who are you? What are you?
How can I even reject you?
Without rejecting me?
All that I hold dear?
Dear…Fuck you!
Fuck me!
No…just no.
How can I even say no?

No to You Me.ans Me

For You, My Dear Reader Hope in Ink & Dust

I know in my bones, in my depths

For you, you who I hope reads this
When my bones are dust
That to write well means to write of hope.
I suppose, we know, that to say
You are here now is a hope
Of sorts, but what to say now?

Don’t pass them on to another dear one.
I know you think it a gift, generous loving,
Thinking their appreciation will blossom
And you’ll share the sun.
The seeds blow away and leave
You rooted under old dying
Birch trees – their bark dusting you gray.

Don’t believe a word they say,
Even if yours are true, even I
Swear as I swear this pen is mine
Because we are as rare
As this moment. And these precious times
May not be worth the chipped
Porcelain that got us here
And the hope I am unable to give you now
Without truly great poetry.
Because you should do better.

Become great by heeding my words,
Precious one.
So many will never mean what they say
Or do what they mean.
Never expect more or try to teach them
What beauty could come from it, for it.
Just keep meaning it. Mean you.
Mean your love for meaning always.
Not in seeking meaning, but knowing the meant
In meaning.

Honor meaning what you say, truth is less important
But used more often.

Seek meaningful people who find you meaningful
Despite your quirks and then find truth in them, dear one.
And let those truths become beautiful with meaningful currents.
Then great new truths, sometimes loud so that they shake
The fabric of the world.
Sometimes sans sound that they shake the very soul.

There is hope here.

Find it, my precious reader, my beautiful one.
When my bones are dust, like ink on this page, sacred scattered across time with no body to remember more.

For You, My Dear Reader Hope in Ink & Dust

Ode to Magritte


The “good” wields its way in
Like a blade
It can cut so sweet
Can’t it?
You bleed before the pain begins.
I’ve lost so much liquid
To saccharin, sugar must
Flow through my veins.
Perhaps that’s why I’m so tasty?

They move from the hip
They do.
That’s where they keep it
The knife. Serrated.
Feigned from the heart
Like an apple on their nose
It’s screwed in as an afterthought.
More for their own olfactory benefit,
Something to hide under their hat later.
Faster quick draw than a boot strap
And closer to their sex, you see.

Even friendship moves heart to pelvis.
Chest to middle
Gut to mind and round and round
Unless the source is screwed to screw
And undo because that’s what they do
Toodaloo and what can you do?
But try to be true for what’s left when your due
Keeps being sugar-oo’d?

Ode to Magritte

Be Seen

“From now until further notice, you’re no longer allowed to tell me how YOU feel.” A gentle and wonderful woman (and friend) told me he said to her.

The words were never said to me verbatim…but their substance was. I know how it feels to be seen as “less than” through the eyes of a man you think you love, you live with, you dream of a future with.

I told her what I had learned what feels like long ago but only hours sometimes “now, you must write how you feel.”

Today I realized that when I began writing again, after years of abuse and – that why I write and why so often it’s so personal is – I know what it feels like not be seen. But it’s more than me simply wanting to write how I feel now. I want the possibility for you, dear one to feel seen.

This is not to say I want you, dear reader to see me. What I want, what I strive to do is say “I see you.”

I hope at some point along the way I do that for you. That’s what my favorite writers do for me.

And until then I won’t stop trying.

Be Seen


I am dumb while I stare at these hands
Gaze on this face
Muted by this strange pink that is usually so familiar.

I can’t help but laugh… silently
at the seaming illusion that’s my own line
My own form
My own splotches of yellows, reds and grays.

Forgetting myself, losing myself in the way that is not comforting
or freeing.
Not like that world that I daydreamed in my childhood.
That world I was so convinced existed somewhere just out of my vision.
That I could touch if I only held my breath long enough or stared long enough at the gossamer strands lacing the sunlight.

Instead, it is muted. Dull, without a glistening pulse or familiar rhythm.
An absence of…something. Like that place you land when you fall between wake and sleep and before your body jerks you awake.
I want to wake.

I want to feel vital. Alive. Thrilled.
Moved to action.
Moved to touch
Moved to tears
or screams
or gut splitting laughter.

But, I am muted. Not even truly restless.
But that ache is there. That ache to reach past this thick, viscous, wall
That’s coated my flesh, my innards my breath with nauseating stillness.

That ache is my hope. My solace. My resolution that this will pass.
That this is only a moment.
A moment poised in stillness, while my body rests in emptiness.