Milkweed, tumbleweed,
native grasses (unworthy of names, I guess):
the prickly pews above a red clay floor;
my first church was
on the other side of the backyard gate
in childhood.

Cantering after dawn along the Downs,
she pressed her knees and brought him to a walk,
then loosed the reins as if she’d lost her way.
He came to a standstill at the crossing paths.

the body disabled
is most times a cacophonous suite—
moans, a cry, a groan in fortissimos
mounting fading to and from abrupt
weakness
as misguided antibodies
rhythm forward, injure receptors

Some time ago I was like an open palm held out for a reading,
all its lines criss-crossing
and indicating one determined future or another.

I only remember my waking dreams from then,
as if sleep was too close to death
to access the underlayers of my mind

The amount of love I hold for him is absurd.
The human body contains approximately 1.5 gallons of blood,
and at least 1.6 gallons of mine is laced with tiny crystal hearts,
each lit up with pictures of his lopsided grin, his uneven teeth,
and that little freckle dotted on his upper lip

When I shiver with cold at night
I put on the socks of memories
boil a pot of yesterdays
promise my legs with
a blanket of tomorrows

As for the darkness of eternity
a little light by your bed
might do as the wind
flings itself against your wall
weathering all away

I can’t quite make normal work for me.
The angle, the navigating, the placement.
I’ve lost the how to manual for contorting
my body to use makeshift MacGyver skills
and filthy underbrush to survive on.
I’m not sure how it happened.

I see the autumn leaves falling. I ponder chance as they release.
Watch as they glide, then gently come to rest. A shading life,
clung to a branch, in the final moments breaking free.

Starved for art,
we were made for poetry;
we are mad for poetry.

Study this hunger;
learn how to feed it.

250 million years ago
an ancient cephalopod
once stretched upon granite
and Time remembers
a tail dragging in thirsty sand.

Meanwhile, She is getting away from us:
a child no one sees

Mindset, free flowing, thought exploding
Sunsets,
Seasons, and syllables wrapped into one
Tiny perfect package
But also, great plains
Limitless at face value
And deeper when it’s said

Is it failing eyes or conscience
since we seem not to see how
Rodney stands alone exposed

to torrential rain in wind
teeming masses hurry past
umbrellas clash like swords

In life, I bugged my brother relentlessly
about Escher’s impossible staircases,
his floors and doors, his figures with no faces.

It looks like a prison.
It’s not.

Panhandle my marble heart

Put my lips,
in a lonesome tomb
spread gossip of me on the shorelines of ecstasy
as I fall down the ladders
of your purgatory.

Post-mortem,
After having lived a life
In and out of mental hospitals
For what could only have been simplified…
Of attacks acute sweetness or withdrawal thereof
An autopsy was performed on me,
And a honeycomb for a heart

On concrete, brick and asphalt, filth sits atop. It doesn’t sift into the ground. It runs into the sewers but first it spends days, weeks, months lingering in puddles that don’t evaporate. Too much building shade and east coast oceanside atmospheric overcast

The sun is our center
bringing light and life.
Painted on the walls
of Lascaux caves,
the sun illuminates
the bulls
and the Magdalenian
artists.

in the beginning
there were no delineations markers or boundaries shaping his from
hers
quotation marks he said she said
rivers mapping theirs from ours

pluck a single card from a shuffled deck
and there’s a one-in-fifty-two chance
that you now hold the two of hearts.

all our potential futures that we think exist somewhere
in maybe or one day

The random caws of crows
I hear as I unload the dishwasher.
I look out to see three birds gathered
round the war memorial
and the flag.

for those that are tempted to drink from the fountain of hate
beware of that bittersweet nectar
even as it feels like honey running down your chin
you will realize its acidic burning nature
as it bores a trail into your soul

The Derwent’s not in any rush. Green surf
Of trees, the rocky crests of peaks now still
Enough to watch their sister wind downhill
And salve exploited wounds of quarried earth.

“There are no words…” with tragedy
Or times absurd or ends unknown
Is tragic in its own accord
For words may be all that we own