Of mystery she is born
and in curiosity resides
a spirit of flame oxidized
into flesh and bone
ever carving away at
her skin with delicate fingers
polishing layer upon
bloody layer of tarnish and sinew
for what body could contain
a vessel of the red dawn


Heavenly Nothings 


at the end of it all once the last
glint of starlight falls behind the
curtain of our eternity and
the eves and emsees dissolve among
the silences finally at rest in the dark
i imagine an Ocean as black and as deep
as all the sorrows of this Endlessness
a baptismal Cold entering me into
Whatever lays beyond forever
no waves begotten, only still waters
and a memory of everything

Rain dance


Fall into the open arms
of the Southern Storms
Let the fire quench your
thirst for tomorrow
Let the rain ignite
all the flames of your
wandering spirit


Matters of

True love is not caring who they love most

It’s being happy they have so much love to give at all



I took Latin in high school instead of Spanish or French because I wanted to understand the history of my voice–how my words were mothered by time and civilizations far greater than my own.

But Latin was not the mother I thought she would be. She was a conduit for words still in gestation, for tongues much older than she were lurking behind the doors of veni vidi vici.

I wanted to understand my voice. I wanted to shake hands with the first sound to escape us with meaning.

Our songs are old. They are ancient. They are relics that may well be from another world, another kind, another singularity… thousands of years of human history, not lost but ungiven, as written language came much later while our voices followed closely behind us.

Imagine. Your voice coming from the mouth of a woman clad in mud and fur, teaching herself and her children how to shape the pyramid that would become Babel.

Her voice is yours. We will never know the vowels and the verbs she gave us, but we know her in the same way we need not think to understand that our words are us.

I may never shake hands with the tongue that gave me language. I may never know the face of the one who pulled meaning out of meaningless sounds. But let that not stop me from speaking. Each breath a quiet thanks to she who opened her mouth and gave me life.

Di amore


Sing me a lullaby

sing me a song

sing me into music

that might make me fall in love

Sing under the sunrise

and when the moon is bright

sing to me so maybe

I might fall in love tonight

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