Saturday, September 28, 2013

Friday, September 27, 2013

Becoming Visible - Tanka sequence

Becoming Visible - Tanka sequence

go home
slow-healing wounds. . . 
like fog floating
over the city,
let me come apart in the wind

a touch of a jay
about him, my husband—
in and out of our bedroom
always giving parties

to cover the silence,
always a leaf quivering
in the rush of air
what could I give him,

but the threat of my extinction

Monday, September 23, 2013

walking in the grove 
of success 
absent of mind, dreaming 
beauty is enough

Monday, September 16, 2013

A Distant Planet -tanka sequence

A Distant Planet

"and there, beside
The thundering waterfall of his heart,
I rubbed my eyes and thought, “I’m lost."”
                                                Rafael Campo

I said,
it's like lifting a cello
out of its case
"but what do I know
of love's lonely offices"*

he said,
I'm Positive,
so I chanted
the painted shaman's
sweaty curse

I'd look
inside his throat
to see the misery
of the world, he'd spot
his cock and think of sin

* Robert Hayden

Sunday, September 15, 2013

Tanka art

my childhood

my childhood
is buried in this body—
a flock of whispers
a sheaf
of pleasant voices

Friday, September 13, 2013


I am the river
that flows past
a city . . .
the soft moaning song

of a child, a belonging

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Tuesday, September 10, 2013


certain losses 
are irreparable—
hard seeds 
in a field made fallow 
by a fire someone set long ago

Monday, September 09, 2013

secret hideaways of love

secret hideaways of love

birds covet
the seeds of the honey locust—
I let him
lay me down on the cold,
bitter ground

he pressed
against me, cock on cock—
I believed
we were all beautiful,
at least once

I'm done
with the malicious idea
of what's eternal—
it’s easy for me to look back
at what’s destroyed

Thursday, September 05, 2013

Tuesday, September 03, 2013

Monday, September 02, 2013

The Poetry of War […Syria]


If I could catch up
with the rhythm of things
I'd stop talking

and sink into a deep
historical silence—
poetry of the dead.

Ghosts and gyres,
sages and tyrants,
expressions of longing

for a lost world.
The misplaced shoes
of a gassed girl.  

Silence studies
the unregarded floor,
the effect of Sarin

on our lungs,
the involuntary
twitching of the legs.

Yet we must dig
deeper into earth
to find the epiphany

of these actions.
Perhaps the temple
was a defective construction.

Or “Nothing” is more
than an absence
whose advent is to be welcomed.

“Nothing,” a furiously
crossed-out “Something,”
 Absence, whiteness, silence.

The Poetry of War, Part Two […USA]

This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another,
the fog thickening the high branches
of the sycamores.

This is about combat, the last one I'll see
if I walk barefooted on a wooden floor
with a month's supply of pain killers
in my pockets

lying to myself about
the secret of life being
the resurrection of a worm.

This is about the writing in the air
of swallowtails and the armed forces
of destruction waiting underground
from Syria to Mexico.

—A moment is a warehouse
where armies are stacked
to the ceiling—and there’s no other way to say “No.”

This is about soft porn, masturbation, invasions, and nerve gas,
and children, and food shortages, and coffins,
and the right to pick plums from the Emperor’s courtyard.

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