with time, and

morning on my hips
i mosey to the kitchen,
look for a cereal bowl,
or an eventual afternoon

i find a piece of you
still stuck in my hair
and i’m flattered,
i suppose the same

can anyone imagine?
it smelled like rain,
and i’m sort of sorry now
for meticulously running

that matted strand
directly under tap water
working the candy mess
out, and down the drain

like whatever
got stuck on me
was neither body nor spirit,
and could not remain


for Real Toads


how was it?

the vagina,
nods her head
spouts the latest
experiment in love
from the NY Times

the penis,
– pulls it up
on his phone,
in buckets,

he’s gotta
flesh it out
– a magical death
– a passionate child
his breathless awe

she’s searching
for some sugar
somewhere. exhumes it
from her mystery purse,
– surely a sex


55 for Hedge

it’s been two weeks

thin skin
grows over
any trace of you
– little do i know

the air
cracks differently
when i breathe it
without you

sure, i still take
my drink cold,
stretch my legs
thinner ’round the miles,

but today
i’m shelled by
this pink wall
behind the commode

so i text you
hoping you’ll see
– everything’s untrue
without you,


musing with Sanaa at RT

the dermatologist & every other guy i’ve slept with

remove your socks
he’ll say
after i’ve waited
comfortably naked
and alone

i’ll do whatever he says
like turn over
like look away
let him pull my
peach panty
on my right cheek,
closer to my goodwill

he’ll blister
my skin
because it’s what i demand,
because i have faith
he does good business


55 for Hedge


book of words

in my book of words,
i keep a modicum of
‘happy’ for ‘sad’

i talk a worn testament
versus a sworn testimony
to keep me plain

as lightning

away from
big-headed people
opposite this
two-way mirror

thunder’s in
‘sad, mad,
happy, glad’

nothing’s uptight
with me

like the ‘infinitesimal’

or mockery of
what it means
to be small


words count for Mama Zen

I’m sniveling,

I’m fault-finding, and fact-checking August and September. The “End of summer” is a grandstand brag! The sweat at the base of my neck, and the damp curls residing there say there is no ‘end.’ I admit to liking one initial burn on my flesh like any other vacation fool might, but enough is enough already.

I’m spitting. I’m ingesting triple digits every stinking day. I’ve lost my cool, (I’ve missed my appointment with the air-conditioning man), I’ve lost my mind, and any sordid count of these sweltering days.

1-2-3, cuss, 1-2-3, cuss. That’s what heat will do to you. Flatten and fry you. Start a fire in you, — or in the old bowling alley, or in the canyon hills. I’ve seen it go down. I’ve seen it go up (in flames). It’s enough to make me want to scratch my fingernails though the taped box top of August tanks and crops. Come on, September, let’s be chill. Can’t we curl up under the covers?

Screen Shot 2017-09-04 at 2.45.41 PM

it’s my apple heart
shriveling in on itself
— august burnt tattoo


(with apologies) for dVerse

what star

you sit there
watching tv
going in and out
of my consciousness
and i can’t muster
much of anything
similar to i miss you
let alone i love you

but perhaps i’ll
entice you with
the soft part of
my hand balancing
an apple,
because i did see
a falling star this morn,
which was unusual

and because of that perhaps
i’ll give my body to
you during commercials
which light up my hairs
but if you don’t return
to me, i swear to God,
this apple i’ll withdraw
my legs i’ll unwrap

tell me, what star
has to fall
in a hot phosphorescent
mess of green and
violent for you
to understand
the apple is my love,
it will always be my love

forgive me

i wasn’t a real person
even though i showered twice
and scrubbed the toilet
stained with piss and sin

today i woke with
the feeling of
but i’ll be wrong
and go to church anyway

i’ll finger
a piece of
unleavened bread
and begin to sweat

i always forget
the lethal trace
of dynamite baked in
before i squish that scrap
on my prickly tongue

don’t know why i even try
to chew mute and noiseless
except to cover the necessary
shame and terrific implosion
of reformation going on inside


for Sherry at Poetry Pantry

I like this kind of art.


Johannes Vermeer – The Little Street 1657-1658

September moves every day, —
in sound & silhouettes,
in an immersion of subtle
pigments —  but you,
You are my favorite kind
of vulnerable & tender.
As real in my hand
as a Coffeyville brick,
As light in my palm
as a captured sallow sun.
Never inconsequential
(I want you to know,)
are the two softie dogs
on our sweet Little Street
lying together if only
to mirror our love’s delight.


playing it again for M at Real Toads

Thursday eats me

OK Annie,
it’s monsters or motors.
Either way you can disregard
all the gears,
pop the clutch
when a downhill war
rises out of nowhere,
which of course is never out
of nowhere.
There’s a
discrepancy in the report.
Scan the surroundings,
avoid tunnel vision,
diarrhea, and a funneling off
of patience with the every day
check-ins of, “What scares you?”
Closed fist, or open mouth?


Monsters for Real Toads