decaying triptych


bleached bones and carrion–
food for the vultures,
the scavengers searching
for what we leave
when we die


scavenged remnants and
broken vessels
spilling over onto
cold beaches
of black sand


scattered pages left
for the mold to take–
ideas molded into
form and function,
reduced to unheard whispers


Noah Wept

Three dark nights before the flood, Noah sat in a circle of dirt, thinking about what lay ahead.

He was righteous.

He was just.

He walked with God.

He sat and thought and waited.

He thought of his sons. He thought of his wife. He thought of his sons’ wives. He thought of the animals, wild and tame, the birds of the air, the creeping things of the earth.

He thought of the earth.

He thought of the waters.

His eyes filled with tears that spilled into the circle of dust from which he cried out to God. He took a handful of the damp earth and with it, covered his face.

Three days later, the rains came and washed the dried earth away. The circle of dirt of his dark nights became a valley. Then a mountain.

Then a memory.

open lens

my eye opens to let the light in
a quick blink–
more than that and i go blind–
and what i see is forever

i know you

i know how your hands feel
when you take me in your fingers
allowing me to wake up
for milliseconds at a time
my eye trained on what
you want to immortalize

i know you better than anyone

your loves, your face, your touch,
where you go, what you do–
i remember it all
while you forget

every time my eye opens
my retina is burned with
shadows and light

i remember while you forget

until you take me apart
and unspool my eyes
burning the memories away


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.