In The River

Looking to the river, melting with the rain,
dreaming of the seaside where all waters meet again,
trying to congeal, hoping to be solid,
but my runny-skinned body can’t
stay discrete for long.

Looking to the river, thinking of the molecules,
Do they really touch? Do they simply jostle?
Do they have their favorite friends or
do they simply flow?
Do the tiny components ever
wonder where they must go?


I cannot survive another winter, here.
In Spring, I plant the hard-shelled seeds
and watch the fingers erupt from the earth;
In Summer, I pluck the flowers, the fruit,
the fragrant things,
the offered vittles,
and in Autumn,
(that most loathsome of seasons),
I watch the vines curl, the leaves
prune and blacken, I
see the fruit molder,
fluffy mildews, crown-rot,
the vibrant greens drain to brown,
to gray,
Drooping at every frost
like sickly children.
I think,
I cannot survive another Winter, here,
and long to see the Spring.

Slipping In To Some Kind Of Skin

I am young, I am bored,
black locusts are in bloom,
the sun is high, my peers are laughing,
I am locked, alone, in my room,
the last scion of a crumbled empire.
I am a wanderer in my mind,
I am a philosopher in my own way –
seeking answers impossible to find.
Most things I do anymore
are error-prone repetitions,
reading the same books as before,
dreaming in incorrect positions.
I am not the first in this place,
I will not be the last,
desperate to escape,
too numb to leave,
clinging to my books,
and to the past.


When the day is tough or
I’m a little bit bored, or
a thought from ages ago drills
through the back of my skull, white hot,
burning through my optic nerve-
I go someplace else,
just for a moment,
a place of soft focus,
of wrapping a strand of black, black hair
around fingertips, of
twirling, and losing track of
my place in this world.
And I’m told my mouth hangs open,
or I murmur,
but I don’t mind.
I’m busy,
I’m twirling in a place
of gentle emptiness.

Mummy Fruit

Trees full of forgotten things,
dangling from vines,
suspended on their umbilicals.
Dried by the frost,
withered and wanting
for hands, fingertips, teeth,
beaks, any trace of
Lost in the season,
in spring they remain,
garish and staring,
empty, rotting,
yet surrounded by such
beautiful blooming.

Looking For A Knife

Well, yes, it’s true that I
gained possession of this knife by stealing it,
oh, six years ago;
but regardless,
I would very much like to find it –
It is not in the couch cushions, not under the bed,
not slipped ‘neath a dresser or
in the doghouse waiting to be fed,
it is not in my hand,
not in my pocket,
not in my heart, but stuck in my head,
and there’s no worse thought for me,
at the moment,
than wondering where I’ll steal my next knife.

Moving East

This house has been steeping for three long and painful years;
The brew’s as bitter as the halt of a career.
Pour out the pot;
take that last shot,
I know it won’t save us,
but I might just save myself.
I’m going east,
You’re going to hell,
and I just can’t care, can’t care,
not in the least,
Can’t care where your dreams dwell.

You always taught me that a stitched wound doesn’t scar.
my face is spotless, but the wounding went too far.
I’m done wishing and I’m done bleeding,
I’m moving east,
wherever the night may lead me.