i can’t tell you where i’ve been

a dirt road by I-5

like so many others
i used to search out

lined with some kind
of trees, i can’t tell
you what
for hidden deeds

but today
i woke up in my own
bed, not a grove,

feeling familiar

even easy
that i can see the sun

what i mean to say
is that
i’m back

if sunshine matters


for Poetic Asides


i’m not sentimental


some girls turn
their roses
upside down

tie them together
at the knees
hang them by their

some girls
watch their flowers bleed
watch their faces
wane to colorlessness

some girls become
stranger still
to their
upright selves

some girls meet
while other girls

some loves
must be
whose sum must not
be saved


for Real Toads
and submitted to Verse Escape


you’ve been thinking
more than your usual ruts

and i’ve been thinking
’bout that nightmare job

how the frosty haven’t even been
issued a death certificate,

and here you are wanting to change
my name to Always. Always?

i’m awoke now. i ain’t dead yet.
just choking on Al(l)ways

figuring out all the ways
i can start over with an ‘A’


for Real Toads
& November PAD Day 1


your pardon

is like stars


on the opposite

side of blue

{I can’t blink at you}

for Twiglet

the wisdoms

who’s hands are these?

look at them

idle and veined,
i have no other choice

but to look at the window leaks,
the mold expanding

in the bathtub
a black wrongness

a simple sowing,
an awful rowing

most days i imagine
moving out,
breathing right

but my fingers still
crinkle and push
to white the grout

like i have no other choice


cleaning house for Real Toads

I smell like cotton candy


Not a petal has fallen from its let-it-be place.
Tell the doctor there’s no need for a referral.
Tell the gardener to put away his ratty rake.
I’m just where I should be, love. Don’t say it.
‘Should’ isn’t as fraught a word as is ‘love.’
I know there’s a way to stand in open water,
A way to soak in all the love through my toes like
A god-damned sippy straw. I know there’s a way
To be me without the hairdresser rolling her eyes,
Without mothers turning their kid’s shoulders the other way,
I’m okay with that whispered wire, “She loves too much,”
I like the parts of me that smell like cotton candy.


picture #2 for Real Toads


and the problem is —
i have too many walls
which retain information,
sensation, reverberation

and i know what to do —
scrape them just right
so that there’s no
deception, inception

and you can look at me —
maybe that’s the whole point
of this delicate colonoscopy
a straight forward loneliness

and, an in, and push —
we’re through


55 for Hedge

this autumn sunset

is a little hell going down.
A sad necessary
burn, a cigarette
snuffed in a distant hour.

The tinge grows over me slowly,
for days,
a sneaky-bitch-slow

who swears love
is the same as the moon,

that comes and goes. she goes.


for Real Toads

I’ve got these

four words rattling inside
my head, but the crickets
are too loud.

Never quiet,
unless you eat them.

My other words are stars,
traffic, and sundown.


4 from a word list submitted to Twiglet

Sick for home

Why the hell have I eaten
All the pretty posey words?
I should have asked consent
To touch their leafiness,
Made them bashful friends

Now they are mere shadows
In my throat, a dissolution
Of ferns I once beheld in
Dumb youth; a good green
I found and wanted to stroke

As if a smooth hand
Mirror, a real glass thing
Which pains me greatly now
In my larynx, as I choke it down
An empty voice, a glaring vision


for Real Toads
{this makes my 1,000th post. anybody tired of ’em?}