SQUARE DANCE
cow jump
moon over
laugh dog little dog
dish spoon spoon dish
diddle fiddle hey
What would happen to
the squirrels
if they languished
each time
they misplaced a buried nut?
You’re my Lemon boy,
you know.
although we met when you were a flower.
We grew close when nature turned you to a weed.
but the thing is,
dandelions are still weeds.
You were always a flower.
forced to become a weed.
and I love you and you’re story,
always will.
A rose prick you,
made everyone look at you like a weed.
but I was pricked by the same rose.
I know.
I understand.
I trust you.
But my favorite part of our story,
After the fact we survived the same rose
only making us closer,
it’s that I felt a calling to you
the day you felt alone.
When everyone left you,
I got the privilege to be the one to come to you.
I didn’t even know it at the time,
I hadn’t heard the rumors.
And once I was told them by that rose,
I immediately went to you.
but it’s funny in a way.
I was pricked by the same rose with different thorns,
but pricked with the same thorns by a different rose.
it’s funny how interlinked out roots are.
then I discovered more of your story.
parts you rarely tell people.
it made us closer,
it made me trust you.
it’s was easy for me to get attached,
hard to gain my trust.
But I trust you more than anything now.
But another one of my favorite parts of our story was recent.
It happened years ago for you,
but it just happened to me.
we were loved wrongly,
touched callously.
but I firmly believe everything happens for a reason.
I now connect with you on an even deeper level,
I went to you for help first,
because I know
You knew.
You understood.
You trusted me.
I’ll never be able to thank you for everything you’ve done,
even if I spent the rest of my life trying.
but then comes the fertilizer.
then comes the clouds and rain.
Every single day I fear I’ll hurt you.
I fear losing you.
It happens to me all the time.
one after another I lose and lose and lose people,
people I’ve given everything to.
people close that I tried everything
and I always get pushed away.
I cried today just thinking about you walking away,
wondering if you feel the same.
but no matter what,
I love you.
Always will.
It’s over.
The bank account is empty.
The tires are bald and flat.
A wheeze punctuates my breakfast In the cold gray of January morn.
The fullness is now lank.
The dog is asleep, hibernating.
The wealth has whittled way to penury,
Bit by bit
Morsel on the lapel
Brushed away in distraction.
I like this emptiness
This meanness.
Not much left to lose.
It is the rich tonal depth of a tube amp and Fender tele.
Hollow, bright, insouciant of itself.
I am that tone
At my best.
When the direction of the gods becomes me
A glowing conduit for electric movement
That takes
Me,
Us,
All,
Unaware and something happens,
Magic.
A joke.
A misguided fastball lifted over the fence
Or a career.
The start of the friendship with The Goddess I share in my life.
An incidental interaction
On the street
Gone like a trifle but In accordance with a greater design than mine.
Footsteps crunching in the snow
Such a lovely sound in twelve degree
Dry January hangover
It leans toward the sun, unashamed of wanting warmth. Each leaf holds the curve of a green flame, soft at the edge, sharp at the scent. I brush my fingers against it, and it answers—not with words, but with memory: of kitchens heavy with garlic and steam, of hands tearing leaves into bowls like blessings.
Basil is not new. It has walked beside us through centuries. In the courtyards of India, it was holy. In the markets of ancient Rome, medicinal. The Greeks named it for kings. In Haiti, it guarded the doorway to the spirit world. In medieval Europe, it was feared and revered in equal breath—thought to sprout only when cursed, yet tucked into pockets to ward off evil.
And now, it grows in a clay pot on my deck. No altar, no temple. Just the sun, the breeze, and my quiet admiration. It asks for so little—light, water, a touch—and gives so much: flavor, comfort, memory, ritual. I cannot walk past without touching it. I cannot taste a tomato without thinking of it.
Sometimes, I close my eyes and I’m in my grandmother’s kitchen. The blender hums. Basil, pine nuts, parmesan, garlic. A little olive oil. She calls it pesto, but it is more than a sauce—it is a spell. She spoons it into a bowl, and we sit at the table with sleeves rolled up and sleeves of saltines. No ceremony, just the afternoon sun and the sound of us crunching, dipping, savoring. A sacred snack. A small joy that feels like a ritual.
Basil does not bloom with flowers,
but with memory.
And when it does,
I am safe. I am home.
how do I make my
body calm down? this sucks. fuck!
everything sucks. fuck.
Descend to the misericord,
half-cantilever, half-secret:
a mercy-seat that bears your weight
only if you bend.
Beneath you,
grotesques, green men, grylloi,
foxes with chalices,
apes with miters,
a woodwose curling
in relief.
Above you, a hammerbeam roof
like a ribcage,
rood screen removed,
still haunted.
The angels see your unworthiness,
your entire epistemology.
in the attic
forgotten words
scribbled
on dreams found
in dusty boxes
escaping to
nothing
psycho trash
