The mischief does as they are wont when running from the clowder
And pack listens so eagerly for murders every hour
A school observes intently certain channels on the dish
Where they catalogue each detail when conspiracy plays tricks

The tree man cautions against
cutting to the trunk

Yes, the limb is mostly dead
but the tree will unsettle

This is how I make room
for my own decay

The tree will look strange
without the grasping limb

My dead branches live
as part of my whole

Without cutting, the limb will
one day break and crash

My decay may consume me
but if I cut now, I may topple

in the next screaming wind

The day arrived feathered:
three dropped by tawny owl beside
the churchyard gate.
Non fictae —
they were real, they were rain-soft,
they were waiting.

And in the windows:
a tit with a cellarer’s dish,
girded in belt and ale-key bliss,
asks: “Who blameth this ale?”
An owl tolls a bell with his foot,
and the glass replies:
“We must pray for the fox.”
A hen in a hennin greetes richlynge greet.
She bows to the skull, who says nothing.
A sparrow in mail prays for the poure.
The mottoes molt, one into the next.
“At thy last ende,” warns the window.
“Say well, or be still,”
whispers the stitch.
“Make God thy frende,”
adjures the thread’s gold curve,
looped around the lion’s mane.

Et in avibus, veritas.
Even in birds, truth,
in yarn, gospel,
in jest, amen.

Every Tuesday 
the trucks devour the 
contents of our bins

I used to wake early 
and see them coming 
Now 
I hear them from bed

Have I become complacent 
or relaxed or foolish 
since I trusted they will 

not eat me

Twice, Burly the cat was kidnapped
and was returned thanks to his airtag

complete with his name and address. Stolen 
a third time, he remains missing. Now

a feral replacement raises a litter
under the concert space. Most nights

a band plays and late in the evening
there’s a chance Burly will hear

one of his favorite songs
and reappear.

We’re two little boats in a placid bay
moored near a marshy inlet.
I know it’s true, I smell the water.  

Day is a series of dominoes
we push over, one by one,
but only those allotted to the hour.  

Now and then a helpful prompt
falls into our guileless minds ‘
steering us to shore, or out to sea.  

When night falls, we gently rock
in the sleep of deep currents
buoyed by trust devoid of ambition.  

There’s peace if we don’t aim too high.
You know it’s true.
You smell the water, too.  

From a metempsychotic

What makes a writer?

Well, I really can’t say,

I’m sure its more than the scribbling,

Done for work or for play.

It’s more than communication,

In its most basic form,

Is it a cry from the soul,

That by a pen has been torn?

I’m not sure that I am one,

But I hope that I am,

As I sail out on a blank page,

In this ship of the damned.

It’s slow to get started,

But I finally do,

I wring out my heart,

Then I hand it to you.

Is it an art form?

Or is it a craft?

I often think,

To me it’s a life raft.

There’s thoughts stuffed deep down in me,

From the hurt in my life,

But they come out on the paper,

Like from a surgical knife.

And sure I share some,

For my friends all to see,

But honestly most of it’s,

Just written for me.

And I think of this thing,

Hell, where did it start?

It doesn’t matter if it’s craft,

A tool or an art.

I’m sure it goes back,

To when life rose from the mire,

As he left his first marks,

Like the ancient Celtic gyre.

Or I envision a hominid,

Bored in his cave,

As he sat and stared blankly,

We’ll call this guy “Dave”.

Ol’ Dave picked up some charred wood,

And in a left handed scrawl,

He drew out a message,

In his cave in Lascaux.

Though the penmanship was garbled,

It’s message was clear,

It said, “Oh Please gods above,

Remember Dave was once here!”

And so it goes,

Right down to today,

We write garbled words,

Then we give them away.

They all say the same thing,

Through the blood and the tears,

“Please someone remember,

I was once here.”

Back through the ages,

Through the rustle of pages,

They cry out,

I was once here.

Internalized misogyny rears its ugly head
when I pass a car chillin’ in the fast lane
When I look over to see what “idiot”
is cruising the there and it’s a girl who
looks like me 10 years ago.
That’s when I remember my father
taught me to drive and it take zero effor
to pass her in the right hand lane
and the only other people I’ve heard
yell about a fast lane cruiser
are boys who drive stick shifts,
whose love I thought I wanted until
I realized it was just anger
wrapped in arousal tied in a bow.