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

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

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


I would build a collaboratory
if I could…
if you would…
Isn’t that the substance of
our relationship to G-d?

There starfish would dance with
sundials over milkweed groves.

What would say the witchs’ dell?
That “nary a whisper would
whimper ‘where to? where to?'”

And what says the merry,
Faring well? “Blesseth be
the sky, so true, so true
For only it enraptured
bequeaths ‘got you. got you.'”



I hand the horn
to you.
Did you know
you're in the band?

We play together
Your words
Here on the page
the Notes
through the air
the ground
rounding out the noise


Prisms or palaces
the star-kissed view
pulls then propels
my vision forward.

I never write like this
heart wrecked
dimmed from
then through
tunnels soaked
In this a prison
of no One’s making
I sit star-kissed
I hope in your view.



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.