Refuse/d words built into infinite forms of bodies. This collection is unedited; done in one sitting; sometimes daily, frequently infrequent.

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

I undulate upon the dead grass
Me, that slithering thing
With skin and tongue
Moving as the sun
Peaks and wanes
And dies jealously,
and then Myself, ceasing
Under the moon-face
Me, made a crescent
In its pallor,
Waiting, waiting
for a story.

Saturday, January 23, 2016


I watched a slow fly,
dying, tie-toeing over
Daniel's Xbox controller.

It made me think of winter, when
everything is stilling, distilling.

Now is a soft, thin time.
I am not even a shadow
angled and black on the ground.
I am Without.

Thursday, January 14, 2016

reading letters not addressed to me.

Little papers, 
folded, unfolded:
my mother 
from behind
a translucent screen.

Tuesday, January 6, 2015


all that noise:
having to shout
in a room
full of children, 
hardly heard 
over the old hate.

Saturday, January 3, 2015

no real resolution

A new year,
the winter—
a start
with no richness;
no sweet soil or birth
only waiting
in the silhouette cold. 

Saturday, December 21, 2013


Come to bed,
and whisper word thoughts--
let them staccato against my skin,
let me breathe them,
liquored in sleep.

Many nights are finished
here, in this borrowed
house. And you, infinite
miles from here, but still
hinting at heaven, a clever
riddle for the rest
of my life.

Am I a visitor in your
quiet place? Amongst the
scattered cards and books?
Do I curl into your laundry
like an tiny animal seeking a nest?
Or slide into your mirror, as if
stepping into the stillness of a winter lake?
Will you eat my memory,
when you haven't any food
in the house?

And do you hear me,
fizzled in the ether,
dissolved into celestial dust-
asking you to please,
Please come to bed?

Sunday, December 8, 2013

word conversion

My mind is a great expanse
And I wander within
it, this place.

Sometimes it is a jungle,
wet and dream-breathing.

A house with many rooms.

Sometimes, it is an ice river,
cold and whipped turbid,
thick with mountain.

it is a drained pan of a planet,
stone-stolen and lonely,
seared by the rip sun:
wasted. All, wasted.

And it has also been a salt-flat:
miles of sticky mire,
my footsteps immortalized
like a moving fossil. 

I sometimes
want to lay down in it,
the mystery
of it.

My body often becomes tired.

I have wondered before
about ruination.

I become a child with her hand in her mouth,
and paralyzed.

But always, always

words are birthed
in the soft murk of the bottom
edge of a world.

It has been like this for us.

From a frightening rot,
we emerge into a treasure funk,

I translate myself, again.