[becoming] a poem in 5 acts


she doesn’t know
if she can go on
becoming every day
she does know she’ll
go on


she says,
it’s been a week
since she’s played
with her
internal organs


will she ever stop reading vitals?
working-over poems?
scratching out a perpetual
presence on paper, in passing?


to whoever’s eating this
reductionary, binary poem;
you must read the notes
[*perpetual presence means alive]


ah, she’s throwing stuff around now
& letting it land right here
at the better end, because she can,
because she’ll never let her being become
one un-becoming


for Real Toads

her condition improves

of course
she will
accept the charges
and the trouble
of who she is
why do you ask?

look at our heroine
happily burning
too close to dry brush
oblivious to the fire risk
arrow pointing somewhere
between moderate and God

her skin is fire she’ll tell you
and it’s why she can’t stop
romancing her stone
notorious for speaking
soul secrets out-of-turn
sometimes known, then not

and her pencil’s a yellow union
candle flickering in her blue closet
setting a blaze to her crappy notebook
&you can watch her wench that candle
between wrong fingers, long
–but she’ll never apologize

our lady’s chest
cavity brims with errors
a dangerous harmony,
a fierce compassion,
a divine spark

swirling, like the universe
she understands not everyone
will ask for a bedtime story
[parenthetically she scribbles
not everyone supernaturally bleeds
and doesn’t die either


for Real Toads

sheer season

i want that blond

i want that smeared

pepper jelly
from your jar

on my tongue

i want to sit on the ice chest

rolled in just in case
we decide to go

out on the lake
but go for sandwiches



for dVerse



you &i both know i wore the delicate gold link necklace
of emerald bright green lakes for as long as i could
&didn’t i say i would love our fragile ecosystem to death?
&did i not suffer daily sunsets? overlook watershed moments
to wonder, “how come our clasp is accidentally estranged in my hand?”
&couldn’t we un-break the dark corners at the continental divide, you say,

but i note a diminished tenderness, in that

aspen leaf floating
from nymph lake to dreaming lake
— empty is the bowl


for Real Toads

how should i sleep?

with his arm draped
around my softened shoulder
with his breath warming my left ear
which, by the way,
suddenly hears
everything assuredly now, —

he loves me,
he loves me,
he loves me,
only in beautiful ways
like Japan, shojis, and pagodas
without the listless haiku

he loves me in perceptible
clear stretches of exhalation
so that i’m allowed
to join him in vanishing
snow angel dreams
which will reveal this way
of living
[come morning]
with new shoulders


for Sanaa at Real Toads


, I confess
the combine at night
archangels churning their machine teeth
In precise rotating fashion

It’s really too bad
nobody sees The clean hum
the push and dig
of the five foot shovel
Or the flashy-edged table saw
with its red reverse button
i’m just saying
if you had known me
once with a paring knife
you’d still know me
yet this is no place
you’ll ever know me
living in sinewy shadow
unless i write down the wasted contents

if And when we were to meet
i could become less savage
promise To leave my combine at home


for Real Toads

she circles

in softness
in un-

expected math

she’s a break from

(carnation of stars)

is she hair, is she air,
is she eddies in the

you think about daffodils
you think about light
you want to brush

her arm
in extended fluidity

reach for a pulse
tucked under her knee
now hug-held
closer to her chest


playing sort of another Moon card
as imagined in Starry Night for RT

it could be a molehill

the lovers
will spat
and no one
will be sorry
they’ll let the ants
eat the melons
and fourthly argue over who
pulled their heads
up out of the clouds,
— a downy bed space
neither can remember
unless their hands are made to touch
and sixthly, not even then (woman)
on this day of man

you’ve gone too far

for Mama Zen at RT



under some
skeletal trees
dreaming of
their sugar-
spun ballroom

a man on a
sly spindle bicycle
his voice
shadowy beside me
a steely permafrost

come on, —
i’ll race you

and though i hyper focused
on catching that
slick-wit peddler
he vaporized straight ahead

my unforced forfeit
at this ghost turn


take your medicine

where did i leave off yesterday?

probabilities & scientific roots,
alternate pro-nunciations,
marocain fabric pieces only
one twelve-year-old can spell

(don’t disillusion me)

i need my
autonomous medicine dispensed (here)
in between eroding civil liberties
& privacy

why can’t we have more
human conversations & a no-asshole

& can we keep radio alive
for the illiterate, & the illegible
like me, please?

i’m tired of the
insanely ambitious paper moons
& tin cans anyway

i want to go
to the city of Elon Musk accessible
(only) by way of electronic frontier
& say, maybe once we find it, we’ll know
how to get there

be there together
alive in our precarious lifeline
of consonants & vowels like o’s & a’s
in our medicinal cabinet
of marocain,

our piece of
whole cloth jazzed up
with positivity only
& huge bets on forward momentum

but that’s kind of
exactly what
i said yesterday
isn’t it?


for Real Toads