From the age of five, 

by which we locate
one another and know
we belong
to each other and find
our way forward
together

(after Cynthia Borgeault)

Pulling out the crumpled pages
from my pockets
torn at the edges
some stained
lint and pennies share the space
litter
I call it.

Once well-written stories
ink-blotched
and faded

make their way to the bottom
of purses
in the corners of my car
gone through the wash.

I don’t want to save them
not an ounce wants to preserve.

I write tenderly
then with ferver

a life I can never quite explain.

I cannot explain the urge to keep them
the pennies in my pockets.

Chicken Carnage: 
Feeds 1. Time: 60 seconds

– Take one leftover half of refrigerated rotisserie chicken
– place in front of husband
– leave the room

Dear Diary, 

Staircases are determined steps to anywhere. 
Tell me why, you tell me why, going down in
the dark is scarier than climbing up? 

A grinning sauce of Memphis sweet, 
circle running ’round our map or
wicked thoughts. It doesn’t 
matter to me,
if we never speak; I am content
with the smell of your aching genius.

It ain’t easy grinding wheat for flour.
Can’t give easy for cheap these days. 

Olives, cheese, salami roses
our feet lying beneath Magnolia wind, 
tickled by the unspokenness of existence.
Your stillness solemn…
My livingness waits near your knee; the 
days do not blink, now, until humidity comes.

Grown ain’t proved until hope starts runnin’. 
 Proof is in the pudding, Bett-sey, Wobble-
 Wobble, BayBay. 

Tokens, cards, and Tarot books-
mysterious beginnings, your weathered loom, it
offers me. Man’s fearbeats were born from 
the wreckage of human micalculations and 
arbitrary condescension that spread across
dine-in/take-out evenings following
everyday afternoons. 
        
When loneliness throws out its card in 
 surrender, why can’t we lift our hands
 in wondrous astonishment and cry, 
 Papa, Father, Padre, will you
 bring me a joke, so I may laugh along, too. 

                                                       Your Friend, 
                                                                        Me.

Not me —
It wasn’t me
Hands behind your back       NOW
Swear   I didn’t do anything
Falls         dead

My Friend,
With beauty in mind

your hands in clay
a sweet engagement
where embraces
coaxed against gravity
bringing forms into sight
to stand alone
and when you stepped back
beauty looked right back at you
causing that broad grin of yours
to welcome the arrival
of your newest work
made with beauty in mind

And
My Friend,
With beauty in mind

colors pooled beneath your brush
bird wings last seen
gliding above branches
in the morning
later flew across your page
in the afternoon
toward a new horizon
as you focused on the
infinite artist’s journey
while on the way
meeting all the artists
you had ever known
consulting their wisdom
over cobalt versus ultramarine
yet trusting your own instinct
to chose the unexpected
making each painting your own
with beauty in mind

And
My Friend,
With beauty in mind

a garden came to life
all around you,
an artistic landscape
shaped from your vision
where without hesitation
the ground was
weeded and cleared
and a thousand
beginnings took place
with each new year,
and you marveled at the
new life held in your hands
with never a fear
that the work was too hard.
each seed was sewn
having readied the earth
roots and blooms thrived
colors presented as gifts
opening into a world
where everything
you set into motion
stood on its own
a radiance rendered
with beauty in mind

And
My Friend,
With beauty in mind

you taught us new ways
to see the world
through imaginative leaps
and by scaling new heights
for you sparked creativity
in all who knew you
your impact lives on
within our lives too
and you showed by example
how a sense of direction
comes from an awakening to Art

By always giving of yourself
your way of being
has made this life a garden
that is all the more wonder-filled
because you have governed
With beauty in mind

In love 
I am slow to see
That fact and truth 
Are not synonyms.
(1991)

In our upstairs waterbed
we read and mark the twain
and on our wrinkled sheets
probe the fathoms of the deep,
wiggle together
like pollywogs swimming
in warm fluids,
until the nightly vessel leaks
and has to be drained

               ~~~

Behind each lover
she leaves a colon
for me to discover,
new hemispheres
for me to explore:
each time I find 
the land and seas empty

               ~~~

Fidelity
does not extend 
to our everyday emergencies,
sirens and car honks
explain our life;
i give up affection
and take on pain
as a next of kin

               “`

Our quotations,
open ended,
peter out
into fruitless dash,
the social press
becomes the page
others read
as a family unit

               “`

Unfit in voice
and address,
slunk over
in ridicule,
even gentle eyes
seem cruel.
No singles group,
no one to swim to

Inspired by “Burning the Ghost Light” by Caitlin Conlon

The Mother
Holds me tightly
And yet 
As far away as possible.

The Father
Longs for closure through asinine attempts
At drowning his pain
In pills and
Liquor

The Son
Likes killing himself
In the afterthought
Of the Father.

But the Father
Is about
Six feet further under
Than the Son

And the Daughter?

The Daughter 
Just wants to be
A L I V E.