knot to dot

this poem is stuck in my
denying its
existence in
knotted threads I
unravel and pull then
sputter and
spit nonsensical
bile scattered
phrases that
refuse to

there are no dots


things I tell myself

nothing will be okay

everything will

stop breathing



but yeah . . . sometimes it inspires thought

what inspires thought

cessation of breathing

what’s wrong with you

you never ask the right question

I get lost

me too



A Waiting Villanelle

Expecting the worst
Toxic traces of anxiety feed on me
This waiting feels cursed

Somewhere in the universe
A prerecorded destiny
Expecting the worst

Life in reverse
A parasitic mystery
This waiting feels cursed

Let my angst traverse
This ever sliding scree
Expecting the worst

This repeating verse
Will never set me free
This waiting feels cursed

This inclination to asperse
Echoes like a banshee
Expecting the worst
This waiting feels cursed


Crumbling Buddha


Act well without attachment to the fruits of your action.
                                                                    ~Bhagavad Gita


Uncertainty stretches and relaxes its fingers
moving between fear and choice.
Is everything a balancing act?
A walk on a tightrope?

Take that step and let go.

Open to life’s unfolding.
Weep at the beauty of snow geese rising.
Still yourself in the glory of being.

Trust impermanence like a crumbling Buddha.
Walk both dogs at once.
Rest in uncertainty.

This is what it means to be present.

Is anything more important?





Like sand

His smug face covers his fear
as he feeds his followers.

Believing that the loudest guy wins,
he shouts his power
obliterating truth with tilted tweets.

In a boundless game of defense and blame,
he swoops in, hot wind,
sifting his story
like sand through memory’s hands
and builds it into castles
to dazzle and distract those
who hunger for
power and control,
while they take their polished guns to Walmart.
“Blood and soil!”

Can you sense the madness here?

People with guns kill people.
Women are more than pussies and prizes.
There are no good Nazis.

I miss sanity
and the sound of Obama’s voice
urging us to love each other
and meaning it.
I miss the days
he gave this country hope.




Visit The Sunday Whirl




Between beneath behind the cracks
darkness climbs that place where memories hide
muted and bound.

You wonder if light is God’s breath,
filtering its way through cracks
where writhing piles of snakes seek warmth.

Or is that just hope listening to light?

Your musty memory molts
leaving a trail of grey papery pods
unbound and fluttering.



Distance isn’t measured in fish

We did not adequately prepare for this distance.
How could we?
We did not expect to feel like stones
among our tribe.
Heavy and dark.

Peeling back the edges,
it’s hard to pinpoint
when connections quaked
and ripples turned to waves,
waves that swallowed us
churning, then spit us
onto opposite sides of nothing.

There is no water left.




tell me how these mighty rumors circle and spin.

tell me how
when you’ve got nothing to sell
but your Self,
your sweet light flickers
casting shadows that sliver your middling plot.

tell me how grapevines feed cellphones
through screen shots,
boils that fester,
never lost.

tell me you can’t sleep at night,
that your eyes follow seams
vining across your ceiling
searching for flies about to drop.

tell me how it feels as
one by one your bits of filth fall
and fill these ditches
non existent.



You said No

Sometimes you love
The man who assaults you

In the shower
From behind

You are five feet five inches
One hundred seventeen pounds
He is six foot four
200 plus pounds

He lifts you
Pushes you against the shower wall


You say no

He continues
You hear the shower
Spout to sewer

You say no

He enters you

You say no
Torn apart

Afterward he touches your face
In tender caress
He loves you

You say no

He can’t help it
You’re the one
Who joined him
In the


You said no