Sunday, September 25, 2016

Rather Wings

I would rather have wings than a halo
though my wings be black as night;
it is better to soar to heaven
than to shine with borrowed light.

A halo would do me no good,
for in the stories folks would tell
of the tarnish on my circlet--
not whether I wore it well.

But I could wrap my wings around me
to protect me from the lack of love,
and when the desire takes me
I would use them to rise above.

Thursday, July 7, 2016

Empty hand

The imagined weapon in
the empty hand weighs about
as much as all the hate
in a lifetime of separation
and wondering why they
do like that, and how
they speak that way, and how
their eyes don't show the things they would
show if
one were respected for
one's uniform, and that
is why empty hands and
weaponized wallets
are, judicially speaking,
by an unwritten book
where prey is always wrong,
and prayer is their only
And with my empty hand
I offer this argument
but the clap of my one hand
so much nothing to wave away--
the nonsense buzzing of a fly,
but the carrion is my people.
And I swipe
at this
buzz. These clear wings,
this garbage-feeding. This dropper of maggots.
To you, a gesture
of my empty hand.
I have more emptiness to give you,
but stop filling
these graves.

Monday, June 13, 2016


The flood of the
dammed fluidity
the bed it
should have
inconvenient perhaps,
but less terrible
than the chaos
that was made
when the force
so firmly held
broke out
from the unnatural
wall it slammed
against a direction
never intended
were it never dammed.

Sunday, May 29, 2016


I watched them on a webcam--
and wouldn't you?

Adorable nature,
struggling life
hatched, fluffy hairs
mostly naked and

but so to speak--

how start we all?

and I wanted to see them
grow and fledge,
although I would miss them
when they went aloft

in four weeks-or five,
I knew the lifespan of owls,

and I thought these would survive.

But nature has her sway and say
what should be is not always that way.

And I saw them die--

And know more than I did before
of life and what it has in store.

Monday, March 14, 2016

Elegy for the Hangman

Should we eulogize the hangman
per the quality of his knots?
The kindness seldom spoken of--
and more or less, forgot?

When the doomed stood, blanched
fearful and subdued, wary of the drop
he gave confidence of the length of rope,
the length that made a lop

of the neck, cracking it at once
and granting peace of mind;
he accepted sometimes gold or silver
to do the deed he for kindness chimed.

Or would it be unseemly
to give the hatchetman his due?
Though we exchanged knots for strokes
past when his time was through?

Or could we acknowledge he
deserves sympathy for the sympathy he gave
though the clients that he served
were served unto the grave?

Sunday, March 6, 2016


Clear and slow as sliding dew
the trap found the
back foot of some six-legged life
as it came
from this broken branch
and seemed so ultimately
clear nor slow,
not the bright beetle,
nor the amber flow.

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Hold Your Thoughts

Say no new prayers over me
while my brain pan cools
and that last synapse discovers
no relay and
my self slips into
and hold your thoughts
like you might hold a call
while important business
was engaged in
and you were discovering
not mere words to say--but the right ones.

Stop time by ceasing motion:
no sudden tip of the hand of fate
be here, or now, but let
this blood spilled remind you
of where blood is supposed to be,
and let you know
once again, why it is wrong
to see it on the outside.

Don't cover my bled-out wounds
with bandages of words,
as if, mummified by rhetoric,
your thoughts and prayers
might raise the dead, and even better,
forestall your rush to defend
the bloodless weapon
that did my blood-soaked body in.

Give a little care for
the remnant of this
still-remembered ghost.
I was not your politics
and my still self should not
play its host. I was and then
not. But do not portray
me as victim to ideas--but know a person
unmade me.

And also unmade their self.