Tuesday, December 24, 2013


i saw only what you saw

sleek as glass
      what you would have me see

i believed only what you believed
                          what you would have me

and I sewed your shadow on
I found myself
faithful girl that i am
if only                  you were
                                         eternally young
                                                                    looking for you
it might be

But you are
not really here.
You are a figment of your own imagination.
You are a masterpiece,
long labored over,
bursting I became
painted layers,
softer than plush
oil on canvas.
                                                                                        blood warmed
then, did my water blend
so well with thick phantom pigment?
My water mixing, sloshing, as if to fight
for my own color and display.
                                                                                leaving you to your work
My water, sea for you to swim in-
mistaken manatee
My water flowing
like tears that proved my worth.
My water, the pond
of discovery
by which you saw your own reflection.
when the pond rippled,
fact and fiction
my water betrayed,
muddying, jeering with question,
sleek like glass
moving maddeningly, moving me.
I could not be still and I broke the mirror
                               and the silence and
so my own
and you left.
softer than plush
You took your brushes and your cast.
You took my past.
You left a likeness of my voice
that bubbled up, choking, from the dead.

Scaly and flopping,
gasping for the invisible.

You breathed into me.
You gave me life
                       in story.

Friday, December 13, 2013


I hate that tone,
lands where I lack.

When did I become the target?
Exasperating itch?

I hate that tone,
lands where I'm wet.

I am not who you think I am.
I have been mistook.

You see me as
one afraid to speak,
but I know your voice,
and I know you're weak,

think you can outsmart me,
blurring imagery.

So, go ahead and spin.
So, go ahead and try.
So, go ahead and turn.
So, go ahead and lie.

Your have the numbers
but I have the sum.

So, go ahead, keep talking.
I'll nod my head and smile.
So, go ahead, keep dancing.
I'll waltz with you awhile.
So, go ahead, bow out.
So, go ahead, and pout.
Scream and pout
it out.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Fears and Mirrors

At night,
   the mirror reflects
                       forges images of a more frightening version of
                                    myself.  My
                                           eyes are wide and shadowy, large,
                                                 set against gaunt and grayish face.
                                                     Horror creeps ever nearer until I'm forced
                                                      to look away.

A simple call from nature,
                         once the lights are out, and I am
                                                  again, eleven,
padding down a (suddenly) long,
                                       long hallway, heart
palms sweating,
gust of
ghosts behind me, hot
upon my neck.

The bathroom bestows
      no comfort.
turn on the
light or not?

Avoid the mirror- but I

Brief glance...
            and there I am - (she is) in all her gore, garments dripping guilty garnet

I see her without really seeing her-
imagine, only, vision.

Hurry, then, back to bed.
my breath,
close my eyes,
wait for sleep to rescue,
pray for dreamless rest.

Damn you, slumber parties of my youth and your Bloody Mary stories.

Poetry Jam

Light Words

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Sickness Seeps

The sickness seeps; a contagion,
frantic, searching for invasion,
seeking host to infect with lies.
Poor victim's sanity, the prize,
every answer an evasion

until truth becomes an abrasion,
invention the new equation
for narcissus' sly disguise
and sickness seeps

with words employed in persuasion
till loss of self, mere sensation
and in denial the soul dies.
The poison pleased with the demise
moves on, searching next occasion
and sickness seeps.


Wednesday, May 8, 2013


It was afternoon -
burnished light of day
the sun glared, exacerbating
her eyes, already so tired
so exhausted that irritation
came as a defense, to cocoon
Boiling hot
but birds still sounding,
though, as they, too,
were angered. dual chirps,
a scrape, one lurched
down, above her head.
Her nerves, brittle,
shook, but she did not blink
but she tasted blaze of fever
Her feet remained in place,
barnacles attached
to some sinking ship
She swallowed finally,
mouth dry
tongue rough
thoughts not quite as fixed as body.
Steady, her mind reminded,
The authority,
of logic and survival
A cloud rested,
blocking the bright
and her hard as flint
involuntarily \
She felt it in her toes,
their relent
The blur
of his face
came into focus
and when his eyes
she saw her chance
She spat

Tuesday, April 9, 2013


Your voice
is an image now,
stamped -
quite beguiling.

                eyes burn with ideas,
 and I'm stuck
                                                              time flowing so fast
                                                               it deranges.

                                                               I see what's
abandoned, what affliction is avoided,
and I'm contemplating the wisdom in matching all you're cap-
able of.  Deserting, too, the
                       the towering space where once we stayed.
                                                                    Did we leave
anything at
behind?  After rumors of ruins,
              and suggestions of deaths, I am fearful of venturing back...
the cries of passage
         echo earthward,
                            telling, somehow.   There is
a choice in this,
but remembrance falters, and your scarcity gives you away.
I dig through, clambering up, not sure what I'll find or
                                                                        where I'll end
I am
filtering through the vanished and
past phantoms, and I am taut of tongue close to
  the precipice
where our love
  hangs in balance.

Write at the Merge

Friday, April 5, 2013

Let's start with you

Let's start with you,
I hear you say,
as you hold back, breathing long.  So, I prepare,
                                                                                                                       pick up pencil,
and the words become damned digits, tricky little bastards, I can't get a hold of.
I'm staring into your laughter, hearing calculus, doing math, where I should be writing rhythm.
I'm reckoning my life in terms of loss and gain,
but it won't add
I'm reworking each number, line by line, going half
         mad, trying
                 to figure out where I
                                     went wrong.
I am turning, examining angles of myth, bends of mystery, holding on and giving up.
isn't easy.
     To what small or large degree have the mistakes of my past brought me, in mind,
                                                   down to the boundary where the indigo pulls, closer to you.  Maybe, you've got
              the brains - or the ways, can do with negatives what I do with the upside of words.
                         I start with you, because that's where it started,
but maybe if I move the placement.....and you draft dispersal,
we'll fit in the end.
I am rounding up, mixing roots,
    and then impossible, and
                  maybe, I'm tallying what I should not be, maybe, I'm instead,
                                                          subtracting increase.
                                                                          It's a
                                                               toss up, this pending
                                                                        pain, I know.
Torment of dilemma, or maybe it's simple
                                                                          as pie, you and I.
                                                                                I think what it all comes down to is the sound of your
so I say, Let's start with you;
          you tell me how one and one makes two.

Saturday, March 9, 2013

for the record

The photograph of you
with my mother,
both deliciously happy-
 or appearing
(your lips are sealed) makes me
how now, I have only this.

Much is missing
from this picture gallery,
laid out in
           despite the illustrations,
and elaborations,
and still,
in a heart ache
is that pearl like
for grave.

So, when last night, I
didn't bother with a bath,
it came as no surprise this morning,
                      that I
         should happen on such delicious
symbol of the way I (used to?)
                         If it's
it's not old.
Why do I
        The insanity is
                     and well.  Conjoined, I
map back to determinant,
                each season,
dry and wet
what I
                       know I need to put

I am mopping
up remains of conversation,
finding I am fonder of the fantasy
                                    this mess
to how things are,
       at present,
       am only making up
for life I've lost.
                            I have paid for
this in pain.
Overused the common,
and denied
I have violated voice.

So, now, I'm waiting,
for the way of wound
                         to meet me,
                         the ruin
and the
by the circle
      that brings me back to


Thursday, February 14, 2013

Just Your Voice

 just your voice,
 an elixir.
              Seven years and that sounds perfect, like some lucky number.  A
 Some long journey absolute circling back.
            But I'm trying not to
do that-
     to reduce right away, like I am, to
                          the meaning, supreme- like I want
I'm trying to
keep my cool.
 And each slight pause, I'm  panicking
                                               to keep it going,
 keep it coming,
say enough
 but not
                                               too much.
  I've never been good at that.
But just yesterday, a week ago,
                             a year ago,
 I couldn't breathe
 or bear the thought of never.
the sliver lines like silver
 the cloud
that's lingered, holding downpour,
                                                        waiting, of all dreams of day.  I''ll be the first to
                                                                                                            say, it's
less than sane, but it's always been that way with
                                         you.  Every cliche I've
                                                  ever worked to avoid
crashes bold and unashamed
                                                                           confessing in the beat of leaked tenderness.  Across lines, can
you tell?
 Who's the junkie now, paranoid and high?
  Oh, that great man
                 who knew so much, who said of this before me,
what was once behind me, brings to mind the revelation of what was always there.
 He spoke to me,
and the great man you held in wait, severed by,
 let's call it,
         slow and slip of tongue, of life stinted.
 I'm softly exhaling
                                  that torrent
                                            of torment
                                                 to inhale a new, less
potent fragrance
 in all its impossibility.  Can I trust my
                                           mind this time?
Keep talking, I'll keep listening, afraid to say goodbye.
 Why are you not here?
 I'd fall
                                                                                     flat with my words
 and on my face
I'd let you go again.

Write at the Merge