Let me fall


Let me fall, let me fall
through the cracks in the sky
through the gaps in the clouds
I don’t need to fly

Let me drift, let me drift
down the slick riverbed
through those swift canyon currents
which sever all the land

and when they pour into
the soft drift of the sea
let me sink, let me sink
between watery weeds

Down, river, down
when I reach the quiet bed
let the trench, far ocean valley
swallow me again

Darkness unto darkness
let that quiet blackness sigh
and as you let me fall
let me fall back into sky


The Origin of Language


Once upon a time
there lived a creature
so desperate to understand this world
she gave birth to a name
and forever changed the way
we spoke of love

Once upon a time
there lived a creature
who spoke the first name
then taught her children to do the same
-who discovered what it meant
to be human

Once upon a time
there was a creature who became human
by spinning air in her lungs
like a spider spins web through her legs
conception and birth together
through the singularity of word

once upon a time

Mr. Sandman


Mary Mary quite contrary;
Winken Blinken and Nod.

such simple thoughts
like spoken heartbeats
rocking me to sleep

counting beats like
counted sheep, not
howling wolves
stirring the silt in the
sandpiper’s pipe dream

for let no storms disturb my drift
no words be spoken
least they be in rhyme
and rock-a-bye-byes



Is Hell all fire and brimstone
and flayed skin,
or do you think a greater
pain awaits–one that rips
through the flesh
without ever touching the body

The deeper you cut into skin
the greater the pain that follows,
Imagine the agony
of someone taking a knife
to your soul…



Lines on the highway
that guard and that guide,
lines on your face
a reminder of time.
Lines on the page
spilling rivers of words,
and carved into stone
for those we remember.

Lines that we draw
around land and through seas
there to prove we
can divide anything.
Lines through our families
and lines in the sky,
We draw lines between stars,
would they fall otherwise?

Some create music
others tear it apart,
and some are like arrows
which pierce us through the heart.
We’ve drawn lines all around us,
make them measures of worth.
Do they do any good,
or leave scars on the Earth?



I close my eyes and watch
the universe move within me
nebulas and supernovas
billowing in the darkness

I am a storm raging
in the silent Nothing;
deeper than a bottomless sea
at the end of it ALL

Tattered canvas

I love my scars

they are stories written on my skin

echos of a past

only my flesh remembers

–what was once shattered carnage

has become the final brushstroke

that has made me

a masterpiece

Inward momentum


What is the opposite of being stretched thin?
Not the feeling of being pulled in every which-way direction
or of hands holding you back from the inside,
But the feeling of being surrounded by a room full of people
whose backs are turned away from you.
What is that feeling called, when the walls are not
rolling you out onto a fragile sheet of glass,
but rebounding against you, their magnetic pulls
pulsating in the air while an equal-but-opposite echo
pins you to the empty space between them.
Is there a word for that?



Some people are stars

others are constellations

but we are all of us searching

for a way through the darkness


pexels-photo-52609-largeTwo hearts too afraid to open up,
have been seduced by comfort
and the idea that passion grows from time
when it is a fundamental truth that
stillness only makes us cold.

Of atoms and energy, we must make fire
as we fall apart into each other,
and as sweat and tears melt us into one.
Why else would water pour out of us so freely,
if not to quench our lover’s thirst?


Going home


These heartstrings between us are fraying in the breeze
pulled tight against the distance when I left you here to leave
And now I’m too far gone to turn around here in the light
I’m going home,
going home

I guess It’s not for nothing that I hear you in the dark
your voice is on the wind, whispers calling to my heart,
though once I danced to songs of raging rivers in your eyes,
now I’m going home,
going home

You can try to bridge the distance but we cannot get off,
walk over troubled water but the river does not stop
and the crashing of the waves sounds like better company
so I’m going home,
going home

Love makes fools of men
until it comes around again

Once you were the anchor I held on tightly through the storm
but now the rain’s stopped falling and the seas are calm
The depths are far away and the sky burns endlessly
I’m going home
going home

Don’t cry for me I’m going home

In want of.


I want to love someone.
I want to want to spend all of my time with them,
obsessed with the sway of their walk, and the
stillness of their pauses. I want to be
consumed by the shadows on their skin
so much so, that even when they’re gone
their image burns through the lens of my
inner eye–a cavern so deep, if I had all of eternity
I would never be able to touch the depths of such a soul.

Silence victorious


It was the moment I gave up,
When so many years of caring too much
collided with the end of a road,
One they had told me was full
of endless possibilities if I gave
enough of my heart to it

I held my chest open,
sometimes with chains and crowbars,
The force of collapse at times
seeming too much to bear,
and on days when it weakened under
the pressure of it all, I used my own hands
to pump life back into itself.

But I bled more than it could bleed.
and the road is gone now
it is barely a dirt path here
at the end of it all.

Rising sea


As an homage to the tide, I tear myself apart,

let my skin split into rivulets the same way she

fractures the moon over her body.

I have not the tears to pour onto the sand

the ways she courses relentlessly over the shore,

but I have enough to drown in while

my cries build into her own.

Mens rea


Failure remains sin:
It is intent that incriminates,
which shackles us in irons.

Was it not the Pharaohs who taught us?
Those specters who upon death
will weigh our hearts to a feather?

Not our minds, no,
nor our skins which obey.

Reluctance will not lead to salvation
when our most secret desires
build walls of consumption.

It is this that beats me through the chest
prac-tice       is not      per-fec-tion

But still, I am restrained.