Wednesday, April 17, 2019

dull knives

there aren't many "no's"
        and who the hell knows the best way to share a heart.

how to explore the ugly ridges that line the drawers
        the crumbs accumulated
        the residue of too many spilt drinks
        late nights
        a burn or two.

who's the guide? who has the power?
       at what hour do I bend on knee to consult the demigod
       the oracle
       the magician
       who stirs up primitive and necessary chaos as a harbinger of healing.

no one knows
     they're flailing too.
     they've moved homes
     are moving within the Self.

they're scraping back old wallpaper
     using dull knives


Wednesday, April 10, 2019


bury my face in the desert
the rigid push back of denim.
black and born of Jupiter.
in it I find the smell of home
unlikely, unexpected.

the sweet lips of conspiracy
meet easily and are a part
as I feel my ribs in four dimensions.
as I find my thighs in the thickness.
strokes of internal grabbing
the raw scratch against my back.

a tawdry tarantula lives in my bloodtype.
strong and misleading
a truthful bitch
who pushes me off planets
and teases
frequently suggesting that I don't know how.

the firming age of a saguaro
sneaks into my vulnerable ground.

what a tiny root, an immature possibility.
what comes of this wildness?

some new found embodiment or a life?
lessons all the while the creosote is knocking at my nostrils.
inducing, attracting fear-laced allergic reactions.

buried under too much is a small light.
here is rounded out a den.
here sleeps a stone that once beat blood.
here, an opening.
here, this is
here, what is.

Thursday, April 4, 2019


clarified by fire
such a precise prism
pointing to purpose and unforgiving realism

like lightning
smashing the ground
smacking its womenfolk into change

a collective war call
of all the women hurt by men
of all the minds drawn into madness and mindlessness

there's a burgundy burping
a stewing slurp, a velvet thing

a heart
strung up like yesterday's laundry