Posts for June 22, 2017


My skin

My skin
Mine and mine alone 
Mine to puncture 
To ink
To mutilate
To exfoliate 
To nourish 
My skin
Not yours 
To claim
To abuse
To love 
My skin 
Hides my soul
Protects it 
Accepts the beatings and compliments 
The self hatred 
My skin 
Strong as feathers 
Weak as nails 



I hope I helped you.
It’s funny, how in two short months, we’ve turned into strangers.
I don’t know what you did today, or even what state you’re in.
I know the way your breath changes when you sleep, though.



Took a picture of a glacier
Surrounded by water and snow-capped mountains
Took it from the comfortable vantage point of a cruise ship
Posted it on Facebook
Now I’m writing a poem about it
Saw seals but no whales
But I’ve seen whales before
This was my first glacier.


#F55B99 ( 245, 91, 153)

textured like velvet
softer than a pony’s nose
dimpled with shadow and light
a blossom unfurls itself ever
in the midafternoon sun
as dawning dusk paints highlights
and folds shadow themselves rich fuscia,
pink battles magenta for my attention
as an ant balances anxiously on the underside
of a petal,
walking the line between in and
of the purview of the sun, unconcerned
with the study of optics but living
that can be rattled by a breath,

and I can’t help but to wonder how
what looks so rich and
feels so soft to me
is experienced by a being
living so microscopically
and then
in what capacity
am I insensate to things
just beyond the horizon
of my own innate ability

or even,
my mind’s curiousity


Found poetry: Twitter

In his dictionary, Dr. Johnson defined a stoat as “a small stinking animal.”
Republicans’ proposed Medicaid cuts would hit rural patients hard
All the characters are on trial in any civilized narrative. — William Empson
Poetry can do many things. But what I value is a poem’s ability to make me simply reconsider: a single word, an image I see daily, a thought


Carried On The Wings Of A Silver Albatross

Carried on the wings 
of a silver albatross
rest feathers of fate
Fit for our burden
to lift heavy hearts of grief 
between clouds above
Yet the curse hung firm
around the neck with star-crossed
wings of grave splendor
It was a breeze on
the wing, which blew out the flame
with one final breath

Double exposure with FujiFilm XPro2
For Colin



i miss the capers
and the taste of brooklyn
pizza with olives
in your windowless apartment 
getting dehydrated
on cheap beer
and thai food
now my pills are new
my brain is different
you wouldn’t recognize
me or my arm
once bearing your scar
now bearing my strength

i won’t forget you
but i’m trying to


My Block 3 or I see these clouds in dreams

I’m in. 
A rocking chair on my front porch 
The sun has relinquished its reign
To the rain. For a little while this 
bad side of town is a poor mans therapy
No couch needed
Just that creaking
Of my chair riding uneven red slats 
To no where in particular
June winds that buffalo through the leaves 
Of tulip poplars and black locusts standing
At attention under a counterclockwise sky 



We are ochim
at the edge of the desert;
it will come true.
Babylon, destroyed; only
silent down stirring grains of sand,
small jaws scavenging
moist corpses. It will be
for us
behold — the horror

this land, made anew.

Ploughshares melted,
swords melted,
only hands left
turning to
the bones of hands
and then to dust. But
in the tired
red-grey days before:
the outline of a garden
dreamed longingly
into the
scorched shapes of limbs and
faces turned to the heavens
in some kind of


There is Much Talk of the Pulley Bone Around Here

There is much talk of the pulley bone around here.
Some are losing their minds over a keel sandwich.
Why can’t these people stop discussing pickles?
Biscuits and gravy all the day long, but at midnight:
crackers crushed in cold buttermilk and eaten with a long thin spoon.

I wish you were still here.
There is much talk of the pulley bone.