September Poem 35: Expulsion from the Garden

Religious platitudes. The red ribbons

Of strange waxy weeds in the ever more

Inviting sea of silken fabric that

Wraps the ocean floor more frequent than the

Cristian fortune cookies deposited

There. He would be too cold girding with faith

And the bumps with the father less and

Less frequent like the weird currents of warm

And cold that come with blind reaching for the

Top button on a woman’s blouse before

The series of unbuttoning far too

Expert for the woman’s comfort. The wet

Cold of the ocean far too close to the

Sensation of warmth. To close to family.



September Poem 20: Nightfall in the American South

The yellowed green of the trees in failing

Light. Beyond the road reflecting in pink.

Beyond the wood and chicken wire bin

Overfull with black bags of trash. Beyond

The black barren in the grass where the old

Limbs had been burned. Beyond the hill of the

Crack and gravel driveway mostly reclaimed

By grass. Beyond the dog yipping from the

Drifting reek of her pin, the shadow of

Night creeps up until only the tops of

The trees are lit by the searching spotlight

Of sunset. Beyond, the window burns with

Woman framed in the living room. She sorts

The good from the bad and packs them. The life.


And memories of an old house. The things

Collected by mothers, grandmothers, and

Their daughters. A woman’s trash of treasures.

The echoes of the love that drove her life.

To find when they went into the lives they

Had. To find how much beauty could remain

With a broken woman in an empty

House. To scream. To hit. To drive them away.

Silhouette of the trees charred black by the

Burning pink of the sky. The clouds sprinkled

And scattered leaving a rainbow lighting

The darkening sky reaching straight up like

A spotlight for all to attend the grand

Reopening of the American south.

August Poem 15: Is as a God of Love

Up to my face like not knowing the grain.

Warn of God’s love and lifetimes of risking

Unwanted caressing of my new love.

I don’t mind experiments of living

Love in a rush to make it into Heaven.

But Hillary is not all love and peace.

She is cunt Jemima. Is living God.

Is this problem surmised. Is as a God

Of love. Love of a beautiful woman.

Love to spot a beautiful woman. Love

On her means. On her fire door. On her

Attempting knowledge. On her beer people

You wanna know. On her Saturday vote.

On her ceiling of black shame. On her meat.

NaPoWriMo Poem 14 Fold In

(Lines 490-495 of John Gower’s The Lover’s Confession folded in with the introduction to John Gower from the Norton Anthology of English Literature Vol. 1 P 348.)


Same story in the remembrance

Raising episodes of hat vengeance

Ovid’s narrative fairly hadden him ordained,

Suffering women into sustres hadden plained:

Butchers her own child. He was chaunged.

Feels the inescapable owene kinde chaunged.