Friday, October 7, 2011


Ever notice how yellow is a gathering color?
It doesn't stand alone
but clusters together
fields of mustard
as if
it has a cumulative desire
to trump the sun.


I am sparrow
claw clutching edges
of poetry and prose
little evidence
that the hard work of soul
is in flight


I was sitting with a friend last night who lost her husband to cancer last year. She said that it was almost as if 2010 never happened, or it was ages ago. And now, almost twelve months later, she is saying she is no longer numb, and the grieving even more desperate. And I want to tell her it will end, but we both know it would be a lie. We grieve, we die, we are reborn every day. There are moments when we are living, and dead moments when our blood is turning to alcohol beneath six feet of earth and the beetles are feeding off it, drunk and inappropriate.

No hands, no retreat, no return. Only a continual going out from our shoal, arms out, belly up...bloated and burnt. Then you lift me, with your sweat and love, desperate even in that. Desperate for that. True gifts indeed.


Wednesday, October 5, 2011

She Took Me With Her

"When she went, last night,
She threw closed a
Thousand doors and
And a phone lay crushed on the floor

It was a fire, big and wild
Of another's wood
That scorched, not warmed
And only a river of tears
Might put it to shame

She hushed me quiet
As she opened her window,
That i might see
A clenched passage


We didn't speak
Or hold hands as
She guided me
To where her innocense
Had been sacrificed anew

In her hands of a child
She carried a sack of burnt offerings

I watched as they squirmed
And writhed to escape
Or perhaps, fight escape of
A resolve they underestimated

As silently I shadowed
And her child's fingers fisted,
The sun withdrew knowing
It had no place here

She sat me on a bench
And looked away as
She settled beside
My torn shell of helplessness

Then it began,
Just a tear, then a stream
Finally a river
As one by one
The bag was emptied.
She cried too

First a history
That should never
Have been written,
Then a guilt, mindless
Of compassion

A horde of miscreants
Masquerading as love

Brothers, so called
That might have sheltered
But instead hid beneath her,
And a sister that might have loved
If only she knew how

To fix, explain-conceal
That fell just one note short
Of true healing
And two wine glasses
That lied about forget

And finally,
That never were
And weak, foolish fathers
Who never could be

And when at last
the bag was empty,
Swept away
In the dirty flood,
Then she took my hand

And it was no longer
A child's frightened squeeze
But rather the tender hold
Of a beautiful woman
Who would no longer
Carry other people's trash
To the curb

Then close, she let me draw her
as I kissed away her tears,
And her sweet face
Found my shoulder.

She let me hold her
Having learned her hurt
And she taught me love, again
The way it should be.

And when
There was no more to do
No more to cry
No reason to linger
-She let me walk her home

I liked that she took me

I like that we held

I like that love still lived
In a home of broken windows
And dirty linen
Where rats rule the cupboard

But I hate that her heart had to shatter
Once more
As purchase for me to learn
That her love is unbreakable" -  9/15/11

Tuesday, October 4, 2011


On the edge of all I know
I am brilliant
the things I fight against
are truths that wish to be known

And yet
all I can do is live what I know
as today
and acknowledge
that I am fucked, either way.