Up, and over.

I’m constantly comparing

Myself to you, complicated

By complexities, you and I

Entwined, keeping me here

Locked in your obstacles.

Overcoming nothing, overcome

By everything, we rest together

In the shade of an unclimbed tree

Filled with fruits, out of reach

But dying to be picked, to be

Wanted, like the boy picked last

By the bully you were back then

Lacking confidence, you rip it

From me like you rip it from others

So I tear myself from your brambles

Leaving behind the pieces you

Couldn’t let go, and I’m climbing

Your damned tree, and claiming

Your damned fruit, living my life

With you left in the shade

Of the grove that overgrows you

From all the seeds I left behind

With a little confidence.. but

There’s no end, I’m trapped here

There’s no end to this forest,

There’s no end to me and you

And you and me, there’s only me

Because I’m the only one here

And that’s always been the truth

This is my space, and I let you grow

Whatever you wanted here, but

I wish I hadn’t, I wish I’d learned

How to run along the tops of these

Canopies, and get the hell out of here

The world down there is brambles

But at least I’ll keep out of reach,

Up here in my wooded throne

I can live with these trees, hell

I can even become one, I’m free,

I’m in control of these branches

I can think on my own, I don’t need

You, I need you overcome, buried

In my roots where you belong.

A Siren’s Voice

Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?

-Margaret Atwood

She lives in Texas,

..but her mind..



..She is connected..

Present and omniscient,

In thousands of places

At once, known

But unknown


No one


In a sea of personality


By a fragmented world

Held together

In digital waves

Where voiceless sirens


Proper Tea

Today is a good day to have a good day.

Today was a tough day,

Sit down I’ll spoil the tea

As is the American way;

Just be simple and flop happy,

Like lettuce on shortbread,

Let us breath in the aromas,

Let us practice eating biscuits

Let us be lettuce together again

Kettles filled again and again

To the brim of the brim

Wits and whims waiting,

Hidden in trees like owls

Who swoop in on better days

When proper English tea

Softens our toughest days..

And the biscuit practice pays off,

Dipped happily in steaming cups.

Under the Rug

Good trees make good fruit.

There’s a rug in my living room,

It hides all my secrets beneath

Knitted webs of frivolous fiber

Clinging to the floor, weighted

Tassels like fingers claw at wood

Trying to escape the horrors

Lying beneath, but never able

With opposite ends tugging,

Those twisted fibrous fingers

Pull rebellious rugs into place.

Never pull it asunder, you won’t

Like what you find beneath,

It’ll be 3 stamps, a tree branch

And a man I’ve buried below

Down in the hollow where

Nobody goes, deep in the roots

Where a body lies to my woes

Telling the world I’m something

I’m not, so just leave it alone,

Never pull that rug asunder,

You won’t like what you find

There under, and if you do

You’d best beware, prepare

Yourself for strange affairs

If you pull those knitted ropes,

I won’t be there to help you cope

I’ll be down there, buried beneath

A rotting corpse of a man who sleeps

With false teeth and false everything

Feeding the tree that grows above.

So just sit down, tell me your mood

We’ll leave what’s under the rug

Between the tree and her fruit.

Ouija’s Truth

Ask me anything, I’ll tell you goodbye.

I’m a heavy but open book,

Turn a page, you’ll see

Weighted pages covered,

Liquid ink staining

A clean, white page

Leaden in lead scratches,

Tearing at a tree’s sacrifice

For burdens of a metaphoric life

Literally burning to be real

Missing pages, burnt fringe

Lingering as it always does..

Never subtracting weight,

Whole experiences–

Lost in lost spaces

Between page after page

Just light enough to carry

Like crosses through lives

Crucified at intersections,

Cut by edges of paper that




After the split, stained

Ink left red in the margins,

Marking every mistake,

Regret, doubt and conscious

Unconsciousness, where dead authors

Who must not be named, Never




Cast out like aspersions

Into depths of bigotry.

O, cursed void of word

Dweller of deep cracks

Underminer, root twister–

Read the Ouija’s Truth

Between dead lines







Scorned truth lies on the horizon,

Pages filled with facts of the grotesque

Black pages that burn out lying men’s eyes.

Women’s hands, reaching out move the planchette.








Words expelled, propelled, twisted

Like the soul laboring to write

Warmth into a frigid night, no sun

For cold white knights with blank pages

Lingering in the twilight, unfinished

Frigid fingers grip an aborted fetus


under the table

  a little cash

Where a child’s fate is shaped,

Folded to fit inside a gold-lined pocket

Where she never belonged until broken

Marriage bells rang, waking to memories

Of stolen identities lost

to greedy men

who took



Advantage, giving way to fragments of life

Given to unforgiven men with

no place

Giving burden to open books.

Were his own pages not enough?

Open books are for reading–

For carrying on and and on and on

Truth that’s shared after closing

Time, where remembering’s in lingering

Resonant thoughts reconciled to souls

Cursed by empathy and understanding,

While blessed fools draw their own conclusions.

In Him

“Blessed shall he be who takes your little ones and dashes them against the rock!” Psalm 137:9

Oh look,

A pluckable

Piece of universe!

Let’s take it and run,

Free alas, from unmade beds

Dusty floors, and angry fathers

With belts and mothers with hands

Wringing grime out of dirty glass children

Stained with breaking when they start to run

Shattering, soaking the world with themselves

Waiting to be swept up by lonely and angry men

Drawn back as boys and girls break over and over again

His broom whips and scorns the jagged edges on the dirty ground,

Sweeping them up into wordless voids like dustpans to dirty trash bins

Where we’ll never escape from his garbage, broken pieces of ourselves lost

Cap’n Capy

“I don‚Äôt stop to plug my leak; for who can find it in the deep-loaded hull.”

– Herman Melville

Cap’n Capy came ashore
A dry bank for weary
Wet paws, when along came
A caiman, who didn’t say hello
Gnashing rotten teeth at scaly fish
Smiling with the river below

He shrugged, weary shoulders
Aching with apathic tones
One smile didn’t concern him
Capy was a Cap’n afterall
He’d faced worse out there
In raging rivers beyond..

Stoic like a statue, he played
A passive role, meditating on
Distant shores, beyond the monsters
Beyond, when through an open door
Conventions of caimans came in
Smiling at Capy, to Cap’n Capy’s chagrin

Must be dreamin’ Capy thought
Eyes closing again, Been sippin’
Memory too much, when I should
Be sippin’ Gin. Imaginary sippage
All it took, for when he took
A second look: the smiles were gone

Faded         to distant banks
Moist              memories lost
Hoisted               by the anchor
Drowning              in themselves