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 think of you once a month, Cheryl

at communion

I have to tell you
that the sweetest
dumbest girl
in front of me
swallowed her bread

and I wondered
if she waited
for the juice
she was like me
who couldn’t stomach
the stuff

if she
needed a Cheryl
to pinch her nose,
ward off gags
and upchucks
and whisper
“blood of Christ”


Playing it again with 55 for Real Toads

the wind sets us

which is the best kind
of place to be
for half-crazy
angels & saints,

& there’s no denying
the wind has ever failed
to give us fair & clear warning
you will be cold,

yet for all her openness
ever mad is the grass
& green is the call to commune
flattened out, face down
beside the jasmine vine
bursting with heady scent

& it sounds pretty good
don’t you think?
to have the weather
& sky be the only
weighty things on our backs

wind & air, —
are never too raw
nor is the way
we empty our shoes
of ourselves

but, if a brisk (or gentle) wind
ceased to stipple our cheeks,
or if the grass stopped tickling
the hollow of our souls,
well, i think i would certainly die
in devotion & in mind


for Real Toads
“We all go a little mad sometimes.” – Psycho

let me be solemn in Yosemite

i have not made the world my home
nor have i considered the egos of nighttime mountains

their bare bones make no difference to me
as i sit in a darkened bus exhaling a ring of fumes,
an open-mouthed wreath gifted to the world

i have never spoken to the brokenness of bridal
veil falls, even though she waits for me ’til morn
like a petulant little sister connected solely by chance

i suppose,
there is something though, beyond all my dumb breathing
beneath all this tumbling, and all-out burning of mother
and father, sister and brother stars

if, and when,
things are as they should be, i will latch onto the musical
strings written expressly for me, and dance holding onto
the hem of your skirt which is not one of the least of these;

thank you,
please, for wildflowers sleeping


17: NaPoWriMo and Real Toads

I Dream a Communion

Everybody knows I’m married to Liberty. It has to be this way so the branch won’t break when the feathers fall in the field as they always do, out-of-the-blue, making us wonder; making us seek a culprit. We insist there’s a fang-faced mongrel! We insist he Exists. Touché, I exit early for a funeral, hang out in darkened halls, because that’s my need. I need sustenance. I mean I’m grubbing on some food at a funeral. I admit everything by admitting nothing. It has to be this way. I’ll eat the moon, -its shadowy face.

[playing it again for the Toads as inspired by Grace]


This First Sunday

this is my point
of reference
this deferent
wafer, bit of body
bit of bread
flat and fresh
for all centuries

(for Quickly)


(child’s analysis of blood)

it really is red!

thicker than is possible–

not like communion