The clock digests time

Between soft blue words

As I watch the great moth fade

I smile beneath my sheets

Blood tulip of your deafening womb

Nourishes despair

I breathe the remains

of your dust baked hair

A moment renewed

with the sound of your voice

A sermon told

Through a rose washed breeze

More painful than a butterfly

unready to die.



Water Weight of the Abyss

Head sick splattered
I am unused ink
searching the blue crow
yet to feast on half dead things
that square into me, fixing me in my place

Waxy faced crow arrives
Blowing a pink kiss to the sky
Where the wind will chop it up
Dizzily drinking up my words with it
Consuming the decay

Water weight of this growing abyss
Fills me with wit
For a world I weave again
Then falter
And wait for the night
when the womb of sleep will fold me in



You pour in me deliciously
Soothing my mind
Settling me
Steady in your faith
Aching for a promise
left unsaid

A green breeze sweeps us up,
In slow mornings of dazzling jasmine,
While the pendulum ticks on
Waking us- to red grass sliding beneath our feet

We live in the shade,
you and i
the cold white light between us.


Moon prisms crawl the pink sand

Yet he is hidden from them.

Hidden inside white folds.

Water Flowers.

Blue flowers

Pictures pour into him, greedily

Black shadows unready to fade

He is hidden

Water Flowers.

Blue Flowers

Inertia in his pulse.

He sinks.

Bleached sky above

The salt breeze washing his lips

pictures follow him

Sliding through the hours

Sinking into him

He looks up

On his skin, silver requiem sheets,

(like fish stung by their last wave)

lick the beach with their effulgent crust.

Your smile

That red smile

That red smile lipstick you always wore as if it defined you in all your living glory

Big balloons floating around you as if you had them with you in the womb, as if you owned happiness all by yourself

Did you project that great big smile onto us, like pouring water in a bowl of sugar

Subsuming all that is left within us, spilling it out to the rest as if re-inventing joy again and again

Do you recall the sunlight jingle of a child’s tip toes on a quiet winter morning just before you killed her?

With a smile on your face.