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Saturday, December 19, 2009

Today Medusa's kitchen published this little Suite I wrote earlier this year.


These pathways are lined with anxious

Dreamers, unable to sleep.

The floors are damp with longing.

Animals drift past unaware of our


We speak to each other abandoning


Some live their entire lives like this.


The trees are terribly upset.

They shake their branches pretending

There is a wind. An elm of great age

Has split itself apart. Pale ropes


In a rage from within the white wood.
Rain. Snow. Are you alone my



Can you hear the red voices

Naming your sweet children

Like an adagio or an intemperance

From the stomach. Unable to swallow

We offer them to your red seasons,

Our hands uncleam. We send them back

To God as if they were a charm

On a little girls first bracelet

That has become lost and causes

A crying as only little girls cry

For lost things. Take away their

Guns before we are all dead.


The dream of the children inviolate.

A spinning our of control, beyond

All kinds of dreaming. Children

Are reduced to names. We forget

They shot from or bodies fully

Alive. We have no idea how love

Impacts the core of our being.

We will do anything to name

How we spin everything against

What we really want to happen.

We call it our lives. Then it becomes such.


So still we think

It might be the young

Of some deep forest animal.

It is not. It is our heart.


I’m breaking the morning.

There are spirits drifting

Through our bloodstreams.

We offer them to the gods.

We think we are smiling

As if there were more information.

Some how there never is enough.

We smile to ourselves.

Whatever we think is poison.



Window shopping

For souls. Sometimes

They are the broad

Leaves of the deep

Purple iris. Sometimes

They are the vestments

Of the eyes as they gaze

Into those of a lover.

Sometimes they are shopping

Four souls, forcing dreams

To submit to their fantasies

Without regard for the hours

Being chanted aloud before

The sun has even considered rising.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Rattlesnake Review #24 has published the following in issue number 24-Winter 2009-10


We are always amazed at the way

Water says to us, reflections,

The cusp of foam upon its lips,

Those barriers that keep us

Away from the edge.

Color in the water.

The water on fire.

The way it sees all things

From love to funerals.

Sometimes there is a great breath

Taken, one we cannot name,

That, as it moves from

The body becomes the name of time,

But always we remember,

Not always a “new, new”

But a roiling up from the bowels

Of earth,

Built like a melody,

To hold freely without using

Any room. In the eyes,

In the ears. We see ourselves


Sometimes we think we are drowing

But no, we are being carried.

It passes around us, through us


Listen to our names.


God must be chlorine gas.

On Niagara Falls Boulevard at 1:00 AM

The red lights went on. All cars

Stopped. The air became green with

Chlorine gas as it vented

Into the air of Niagara Falls.

Five minutes of clouds full.

Dreams of death in its many forms

Caught in headlights and a view.

A road stretching toward

The Falls covered in green gas.

Claxhorns blaring danger.

A line of cars watching this

Terror blows into our very

Air. There was no escape.

Eventually the traffic light

Changed to green itself and

Suddenly it was safe to proceed

Through Klieglights on ghost figures

Closing valves against any future.