Every smile makes him lighter,
each forgiveness drops
a stone from the ankles.
Floating is such sweetness
and there are limitless heights
above, and within.
Until he’s gone high, beyond the air,
into the nothings we only imagine,
where all the natural world is reaching
and plucks him;
burning and freezing, apologies
wheezing out from collapsing lungs,
as he plummets to the bitter earth.


A pain that description itself defied
pinned two inches behind the eye
that lessened only with a wailing cry
was his only anchor to the world.

He died lonely, he died young,
with love unsaid and a heart unsung
and from his head the shotgun flung
a pearl only half-developed.

Three Faces Of The Old Oak on Maple Ridge Lane

Radislav Drobnik wiped his face with a kerchief
and looked out onto the furrows;
the pale and growing things peeked out and
up at the sun from their little burrows.
Hot, too hot, he thought-he-thought,
and went to plant the seeds of shade.

The Man from Down South had a secret name,
and when they caught him and brought him
to the tall oak tree on a dead foreigner’s land,
his last moments were fists and hate and

“Will you love me forever?” she asked, as
the knife slid through the old oak tree:
S.N. + J.M.K ’78.
“Of course, of course, as long as I
can think, I will think only
of loving you.”

Transformative Hunger

I have nothing I want and all I need
Chewing through life like a worm in feed
Whose hunger is unsubtle poetry.

Nameless things grow on suburban streets
Hearts pounding with wretched and wild beats
in poor imitations of language.

The scalpel cuts through fly-blown flesh
Removes one egg and leaves the rest;
some parasites hatch into sapphires.


Spring Thaw

Shake the last edge of snowfall out from your paws,
It’s been a long time since you’ve felt awake,
felt so – above the law, felt so – rude and raw, so
stretch and strain for the sunlight, knead your knuckles in the creek,
dare to show strangers your sharp and rending teeth.

It’s alright to be afraid of a world without the snow,
if you do not venture the muddy world, then you will never know
new horrors, fresh loves, strange joys and common sorrows;
which doors are unlocked, what meanings can be borrowed.

God Without An Altar

Wipe the sweat from a tired brow,
plant your feet behind the plow,
treat a parasite as a crown,
that will not sate its hunger.

Fell great forests, strip the earth,
sell yourself for what you’re worth,
too high a cost was asked at birth,
which only swells the hunger.

Spread it here, spread it far,
haul the banner to a distant star,
glance only sideways at what you are
and fear you’ll see the hunger.

Waste All, Want All

I want to rip the gleaming stars from their branches,
eat the ripest and spit the seeds into the night.
I want to sink my face into the soil,
gnash and wail and feel the grit in every bite.
I want you to know: I am dying slower, now,
and burrowed creatures weep when brought to light.
I am forgetting the curves of my face,
and betting on oblivion over fright.