Still sheathed in silk velvet and lacquer with a flesh-smudged mask of henna, I glide out to the lanai. The tangerine night light shines down against the greenery of morning. I dip into my bag, find Klimt peacocked Murano, and bowl the cottony sipper of my narcotic— Alpinist 99. I look to my left. A... Continue Reading →

It is not Spring. It’s winter.   Everyone in attendance is chilled and shaking.   Not even dark suits and dresses can warm them. Yes, buds are opening, wild flowers peeping through the emerging grasses. But that’s just nature. Its seasons cycle. Ours come and go. Photo by Brett Sayles on Pexels.com About the Poet:... Continue Reading →

I tear out my bones and rearrange them while the woman at the counter cries silently into a lukewarm coffee mug.   I wish I had the answers, I say, but the country is too cold, and the moon, pale and rambling, keeps blocking my view of the ocean.   In the middle of a... Continue Reading →

I descend chutes, by way of sluices, to enter rapid currents. You hear me speak only when fees are granted. With glowing words I sing your praises. I will someday betray your memory from a fast car window. I'm more than desperate to quit the cradle. Your vitality comes from youth misspent same as your... Continue Reading →

Sorrow is a well. How absurd that this a metaphor for depth. In conversation, I say proudly, I have never written of lovers. I refuse to put them into my poems. The truth is, I can't speak of horses or of certain pastels without flinching. "Objects bring pain when associated with a particular person." (Not... Continue Reading →

what's the point of poetry? once, a prideful egg, I told someone "it's to show that every surface is a mirror" but that wasn't even right. just a pat answer, made up to impress, like throwing away a bag of coloured painting. some way to while the evenings, drinking wine, smoking and listening through the... Continue Reading →

As all men are, we are weak: the feral perfumes of our loins unabated by  our greater muse, intuition, with our  faces for all seasons like so many   pockets of change. We are of the ways of the old masters: carvers, molders, melders of slab and stroke--the curiosity  seekers of our covenant's yin .... Continue Reading →

He meant to build a room. Loose lumber leans against his fence. That’s proof—this is the time. He’ll square windows, frame doors, sketch out straight lines with chalk. He’s bought new tools, shiny. They lean dry, sheltered by eaves. But his nights are lean—   His time leaks away. His hands are too soft for... Continue Reading →