"I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear." -Joan Didion

There isn't much left
in the wry turn of a concentric
circle, the way the graphite
deepens and shines and rejects
crumbs of itself to smear
about, upon the paper, out
from the host. Little but important
sacrifice.

There is no reason to write poetry ( Read more... )

Sending missives to the dark ( Read more... )

I don't know how to dance the blues. I don't know how to pull the christmas lights from around my head and put them too better use; I am too used to the lighthouse light, I am too used to seizing each moth moment. You are gone. Part of me is snapping in the blue-red dark. This is how you dance the blues. This is how you shuffle in the night, and ( Read more... )

A nocturnal blue. The feet of a root. Blessed, blessed, blessed trash ( Read more... )

How these nice icebergs love you. And your dead man rides one, sits there, commander of a thorough white action. You cannot get there ( Read more... )

I am not after this says the dispossessed self, and wants to keep the unnerving glacier behind a sheet of skull or sternum or something equally thin.  The healing moon jaws on and on; You have not been diligent in your studies, and have lost the cadence of her tones; What could be words to slack your soul on a hook are now the screams of extras in ( Read more... )

We found you Assam ( Read more... )

A leaf fist.  A barely-there.

A small valve in the back of my head
holding back my noisy waters:
so much of the time, I am not here.

The willows outside voiced approval,
or so did the wind, and in return their
puppet branches jangled.

And so the blood in me does.  The water that has
no other want than gravity.

If of course the castle crumbles ( Read more... )