don’t let this be you

in our minds, we right
our wrongs–

in our hearts,
we’re always right.

left of center,
but still in the field,

chasing the moment
to voice our righteousness–

all hearts closed,
all tongues sharpened,

whetted by indignation,
quenched and tempered with pride–

voices lie fallow,
hearts grazing on ash–



I am awake and one thing
is clear: I am
having coffee, watching Godard,
writing this, long-haired
kitten purring in my lap,
waiting for the early morning
ritual of brushing-the-teeth,
washing-the-face, making the self
presentable to the other
selfs judging themselfs on the
merits of all other selfs.

And such is the value
of the selfless, I suppose:
no judgement, no comparison.
no ego to uphold
and no standard to which
conformity is mandatory.

Such is the life
of the saint.
Such is the aspiration
we respire day in, day out.

she who wears a starry crown

she stood starry-eyed on the edge of the starry sky, shimmering reflections of starry dances glistening at her feet in a pool of mirror-mercury. she stood with her back turned to face the moon’s halo–a sure sign of stars falling to earth–and turned her face forward to the ground below. watching from a perch. angled for descent. a starry crown of twelve old lights perched upon a newly crowned queen.

children of jonah

they stared up from the bottom of the well–

tepid water pooling in the mud of midsummer and the walls arching their backs–

the quiet holding onto the noise that sinks their minds into slumber, peaceful, somber, murky–

they stared at the sky, stars hung, moonshine light and no lantern to amplify the dark–

they shone by their faces, wetted with grime and fixed on the stars–

the arching back of the bottomless well knelt before the faces–

still fixed upon the points of stars, they stepped out onto the curved stone.


that sinking feeling–

the open world of gut instinct,

gnawing at the inside,

making the air cold

and the rain turn to glass

a burlap sack filled

with empty pockets,

morsels leaking from the sides,

money spent to tithe

the past

a small king in a big world

and big worlds dotting

the universe–

back to now–

back to then–

the sinking of skin on skin,

breath in breath–

blinking in and out,

off and on–

the last roadsign at

the edge of a starry slipstream

before the pavement

turns left, sharply

out of sight