This Mood


Is anyone there?

I hope you aren’t. I’m in a mood like poetry. This is the mood to write in, when I can’t tell one word from another. They’re all just fingers, made to hit a drum. Is it hollow or solid? Is it plastic or ceramic? Is it crystal or glass?


There’s an idea. A microscopic movement that sounds like a human voice. Am I not, too you? Right now? ¬†In the past?

Now and then, all the same in this mood. I’ve got things to do. They’re nothing to this mood, so it’s fine. I’m waiting, and this moment hurtles toward a concrete end, and yet, will I not be here again, time after time?

If you have the wherewithal to exist within it, I’ll meet you there.


Here’s a story here’s a story here’s a story

Here’s the sound of a word in a jar

reverberating, it’s pleasantly lonely

Just a sound in tight air.

Here’s the warmth of nonsense.

Knee Jerk

No, hon,

Poems aren’t ¬†pretty words

salvaged from a scrap pile

(That’s broken glass and a basic waltz.)
If you’ve got the steps right

You’ve got it all wrong

Tell me something with no words at all.

Darling make a statement!
The thing is I’m wrong all the time

Our eyes are too young old ours

And new is always better

And have you seen the way tin looks in the light?
Put your wild eyes in all directions

Hands in motion are my faith

So without any dimunitives,

Put on your beach glass and

Dance with me.

Silent Nation

Today we set fires.

Listen to the voices of your neighbors

How they hum in the hot air

Smell the sulfur, see it burn
Here’s the stars in our hearts, today

When I was seven I learned the motion of a pentagram

To fix lights in a reverent depiction of Harriet Tubman. 

Five points, like knives. Shouldn’t we bleed?
We still have stars, if nothing else

To watch as we die.

And it’s a tired line, but it’s the same sky, 

And we sit in the same sand, made of crushed bone.
Here lies: not a soul

The silence of forgetting

The names without faces

It happens just like that.
I will dance with you tonight,

And we will sing to the graves 

Until their ears bleed, RED.

It stains your white dress, and we go round and round…
That woman who I gave stars

Crawled out of hell and dove back,

Again and again,

Raising them from fire, burning hotter
But it didn’t take long

To stop existing in the real way, when no one says your name.

Even the stains of tears on trails, blue, will fade away

Not with the same swiftness as names, but always ever closer.
In our mind it’s like an ex lover,

Their belongings have long since left the house,

And they only occasionally haunt our regrets.

How long is it by car to the nearest reservation?
Think about the ones without headstones

Our boys who tasted their own blood 

Not long after the soft lips of a sweet boy

And then nothing else
And for that matter, 

The ones who couldn’t be what they were told.

The ones who weren’t white enough to sit at clean counters

The ones who weren’t Christian enough to come to our parties

The ones who weren’t boys or girls or either despite 
How we screamed!
Listen to them, until your ears bleed

Don’t worry about the pain, it doesn’t get better

Because the trade for buying their souls was owning them.
Today we set fires.

For the wars we started

For the girls who cried into ripped dresses

Drive a knife into false pride, so something new can grow
Hear them scream across time

Hear them closer than you thought

And for God’s sake:

Say their names.

The muses

These girls are so Good
None of us know the proper name
But they are steel and satin
And they are Good.

They are wild mares
And I cannot run with them
They are summer air
And I cannot fly with them

But look at their faces
As they rend the earth
So wide eyed and wonderful
Their hands bear no scars.

Cruelty is a name
There is no depth in their devil
No hell in their fire
Yet they burn so bright!

Even our sins
Shine in direct light.
They are newborn stars,
And I am content in their blaze.

False Idols

I am an American Godess

Everything I touch survives

The haze and glamour of this mess

Is how we’re still alive.

Patron Saint of pink polish

Procrastination and panic attacks

Pink is a hue removed from blood

Aren’t these band aid’s pretty?

I am the echo of

My own damn prayer

from behind soft lips

and pearlescent knives.

It is strong and alive

Not pretty

As it never was

And never shall be


Sherlock Holmes, volume 1

Do you know a girl named
Lily Ann?
Ah, the things one can tell
From handwriting.

I admit I do love,
Finding the frayed edges
Of other people-
Time we didn’t share.

The people I never saw;
I want to meet them again.
Stories in a million pieces
Strung up like beach glass.

Lily Ann-
Her chartruse bookmark-
Wedged amongst the pages
Of the great detective.

And it’s there that the bottle broke
And it’s there it was ground thin
Leaving only a name;
Do you know a girl named Lily Ann?