Innocence Turned Dry, Violent

Nothing matters but how
the words fasten themselves
not to paper but

the sweet child's

spills into
young, empty,

skulls or hand-carved
wooden boats

set sail on
first voyages.

Years later, land
found, settled in
high desert,

sun-parched dry
and wisened,

bowls filled
with thistle and sand

where disturbing, dangerous
creatures slither and travel


Love's poisoned tail
held stiff and aimed

defends itself

from its own

The Indistinct Pattern of Darkness

fell fast then
disappeared completely;

a sense of movement
without seeing
or hearing,

the urgency
of sound without

without word.

If the absence
of color is black


does light create

great love
destroy spirit,

prayer feed upon

When I call your name
the taste of sour
and sweet blood

from its mouth.


The Body Creates its Own Infection

She was bottomless,
inverted matter, bluish obtuse
where nothingness prayed
to be a solid thing

like hand shadow puppets
depend on brightness to tell their
interesting, unpredictable stories

like snakes released in
gravity-free space cling to
their own twisted bodies

as anchors.

The rhythmic rocking
back and forth re-visiting
the womb, the grave;

the body ticking

like chinese torture,
bloating like an anaerobic,
bacterial wound

just below
the surface.


To Each a Kingdom

Everyday mind moves
matter.  See the hand shade
the eye when thoughts
become too bright,

watch a dream repeat
itself in real life,

bodies of lovers
in arc, the movement

of the lips and mouth

and furrowed brow
molding the actions
of a child,

a bowed head
mourning the loss
of life.

Rush now, kings
and queens of thought,
reach into the light,

into the darkness,

mold your
lovely kingdoms.

Sculpture by Choi Xoo Ang


Carte du Jour

No one wanted to say this
tastes like disappointment,

though their eyes
like ziplock bags filled
with oily-black fluid

seeping through
a cracked seam said


a dark, purple-colored,
velvet hunger -

rubbing oil between
the thumb and finger

felt a lot
like blood.


The StoryTeller

Not thinking of you today, not 
a single human being died.
No roses shrank or sagged,

predators sheathed their
metal jaws, even

the delicate faery-gnat

with its 3 minute
life-span survived.

I am a good teller
of stories, an accomplished
liar. If you choose to wake

me now-

you awaken
the dying.

Two Foreign Objects Almost Collide in Space

For her part, she let it
end though the divine
reassured her, it might

How many tongues
do you think God's mouth
contains and would you

believe each
foreign promise if

you couldn't
decipher the symbols?

Some connections
are too close, others
were never meant

for dreams-

as for her, she kept

Sometimes You Don't Even Feel The Bullet

if only
I could revive you but
you have been with
the disappeared for
far too long;

I think you
like it.


Futile Admiration

Strange sorrow, burnt bean,
dark yet perfectly singed;

a single black ant
marching the porch bannister
obsessed with destination.

Not like us who move
in many directions
on the way in

or out of heaven.

Watch the lonely bird,
again and again he rises,
each ascent his eyes
shooting fire,

his lovely wings crack
and bend like an old
woman's back or

a broken mast
in a pirate's battle

splinter in half. 

Futile, yes, but


White Chalk and Scars

The body talks to itself
wound to wound, flesh to scar
clawed deep by

the black-ghost wolf
trapped in my heart.

Skin or cave, my canvas
flattened cardboard marked
with images rendered so fragile

they decompose
at the speed of quiet .

Here where I thought
terrible darkness was God
and it is

inconceivably brighter
than lightness

where it's not
enough to know what's hidden
is in danger of dissolve,

what lies uncut grows

Consider the dead outlined
in smoke, they wear no clothes,
no hats or scarves, naked

bleached and faded
white chalk.

Non-Reactive Properties

This comes from my own life, this
flea hugging its blood-filled host,
the point of nail leading the flat
silver head down into wood;

the seemingly dark empty
space between all that could
but maybe shouldn't

torture or thrill.

There is so much overlap
evil and good, how my faith
enveloped your fear like a plastic
bubble filled with limitless air

which is to say you needed
what I needed and

I willed myself to be satisfied
very much like stones keep
their molecules tight to
their chests, their bodies

so motionless they seem


Do Not Spare Me

These are not words but
perfectly oval corpuscles
iridescent (red)

given birth, a map-less tunnel,
accruing weight and matter,

twice the venom to kill
before they are killed.

Beauty is imagination;
the blade of delight

is real.

Let joy, its stubborn edge,
its pearl-coated throat and
winged animal body

find me.


Act of Forgiveness

The small boy said "it's time to go home"
with an adult serious stride he guided me
down the hall to a door that was warped
by a network of veins coursing

with wine or poison.  "This was the way in"
he turned with a cruel smile, "but now, you
have to cut your way out."

On the other side, the voice of a woman
like the sound of two rivers rushing together
in a storm, somewhat buffering spine-cracking
booms, she whispered "Remember, she too
was once white cloud"

and she cried for me like thunder.

Now the boy, a man, sits quiet beside me
on a park bench feeding pigeons to seed,
his hand swaying methodic like a clock
ticking, his eyes counting each speckled,
gray bird... as if one were missing.



For crushing Nefertiti
I condemn you to
the wire, oiled wood,
confined to darkness,

your organs stored
in pewter boxes where

demon children keep
their stolen plastic toys.

For shattered bones
your skin to memorize, record
each nerve to burn,

explode like
firecrackers.  Then

a goodbye kiss
for what is left
before it



In Any Direction

How unlikely my heart
to find its bearings
in this dark world,

its shiftings
a rogue wave in
a night's storm,

an uneven swell
for a blinded ear;

small hairs
in the shell's bone


Mojave Rain

Fine, sweet rain
on dessicated earth.  The juice
of birth, its first breath

passing through
its chiseled, withered

This land is sacred
like afterbirth
drying on

its cord.

Depth and Dimension

It was not my intention
to stay with you;  a grain
of sand or rice would

A final look back
at jagged-white mountains
a homeland,

the lone wolf understands.

Time is not gravity's pull
but shapes of journey,
the curvature of dream

with its unplanned
arrivals and sudden

The dead rabbit on
the road, the burrowing
mole, the bird with its hollow
bones and webbed fingers,

the mother of my thorns-

wherever they go,
they go



Surreal Discipline

When you observe
potential becomes.  Before
you see it all things jabberwocky
a state of good and evil.  You must
become a stranger to yourself, this world
to seize it. 


The Intimacy of Snow

Again, despite the martyrs,
snow stains quickly
in the underworld.

The lover, how strange
the word, like teeth
of the wolf draws

but like ice breaks

A holy, wordless avalanche
compresses the bony
ridges of an air-filled


Wax Birds

Something about you flying through
a fire of dream, your complexity
Icarus and the wing gliding
then glowing then silent.

In a sky where connecting, unless
you forget or fall away, a type of duality
birth and dying, blossoming borrowing
of metaphors, clouds, pillows, swords,
above the frenzied city or storm, thrilled,
invisible, no shape
shame or ancestry.

Like flying.

See how immortals fuse their children to feather,
fasten them to eternal joy
while the blind, wax birds
are torched.


Impossible Instruction

I know you're in there
somewhere;  your incessant
murmuring, a restless stone
in a deep well.

It's too late to be admonished
or desired.  That skein has
shed.  All prophets eventually

sample the sweetmeat,
the core without
its hard, brown shell,

leave a written critique
taped to the backdoor.

Even I am tired of speaking
in riddles. 

Some Things Appear But Aren't Apparent

Vacuum scrunched
and violently squashed,
held down, transported

face cheeks
pressed to a flat,
iridescent surface

the consistency
of stars

only one eye
can search for

in its limited

I have come to
recognize,  science
is noose and

God is the black
hooded executioner

on this side.

Have you ever seen
a face so contorted
with passion

it looks like

or a bird suspended
in such a way
you can't decide

whether its ascending,
floating or falling?



Are we insatiably damaged? 

Nothing tastes like
sugar, water and basil
heated to crystal

or smells like red
wine and beef blood.

New scorched sweet,
same tart, rich soul.

Now I can only advise you:

You should try to get
your organic back.

In a beach house
with a blue door
in silhouette

a blonde boy
with ringlet curls


like boiled

Moth Hunters (draft)

A kind of gothic ritual,
plucking night moths.

Desert bats with
ash-white wings like
burnt cathedral windows

glass blown out
of their frames

in seamless arcs of

Nearly soundless
their claws cracking
soft backs like

jaws crushing

the moths
their sack-cloth
coats and sad eyes

interrupted light

snap like


Rears Its Majestic

It's unlikely light would stay
attached to moon if not for
its suspicious nature;

inside each cloud
a core of black,

a pack of wolves.

Every night shadow
performs Shakespeare
reciting damning verse;

fields cling
to sky's dresses like

frightened girls.

What hunts or flies
or runs has no need
for ambiguous inquiry:

who will bury them,
what is their mysterious
duty, to whom should

they pray?

To them Eternity
speaks the language
of wild horses,

rears its majestic,
burning chest

without fear or

gallops away.