Category Archives: Poetry

Declaration Rites

When a nation becomes a paid advertisement for itself founding fathers turn over in their graves which they share with the ghosts of slaves whose chains they inherited on karmic loan.

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A Love Supreme 2020

It is, here and now, a marvelous free bounty and blessed inheritance, this world of breath, our most vital resource and best friend, master to our disciple, and how clear must it become for us to not only see but … Continue reading

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George Floyd and Us

Here is a candle, a flagged token of light and trespass in the small hours for a man who is no longer with us, who, for eight minutes and forty-six seconds, desperately attempted to save his own life through bated … Continue reading

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Taos Journal of Poetry and Art

I am honored to have two of my poems–“Anne Sexton” and “Sylvia Plath”–included in Issue #12 of the Taos Journal of Poetry and Art, which is now live. From the Mission Statement, by editor Robin Shawver: “This spring 2020, the world … Continue reading

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The Silence and Other Poems

“The Silence” and three other poems–“Into the Mystic,” “The New Romantics,” and “To the Lighthouse”–now appearing as a conceptual quartet in Riot Material.    

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Legend

Metamorphosis makes demands on us all, and imposes its necessary will, but love, rooted in omnipresence, is not subject to change. It is a legend, limitless in freight and scope, and famous for its radiant center.  

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Tenor

The difference between I am here and I was here is delicately slight, and not really a matter of tense but rather one of plaited tenor and climate, in which degrees, separating our ghost from our dreams, keeps us shivering … Continue reading

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Icy Hot

Between worlds, vying for merger, the reigning glacial celibacy of stars, and the marvelous frisson of pure mortal throb— Where you are not, find your ghost’s bluest breath of want upon a mirrored caste of longing.

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Sheer

By course of sheerness, our fragilest bits exposed– How the light gets in.    

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Found Blue

We do not enter the bluest hours, they come upon us, tender fugue and gallows silk, where we, in blatant trembling sheerness, are revealed to ourselves as the bated wisps between air and perish.

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