Monday, November 18, 2013


this is a trust exercise.
you can say no,
you can ask what sex i am
or if & i won’t mind, no,
will thank you
open-hearted & you
will see that this is a way
i love like you do with only our
kissing eyes & rapture—
us, playful torture. are we
friends? yes & anything

possible in touch's face,
sprawl of bodies,
ambiance with care first
for absolute acceptance,
an extreme rarely afforded
in a queer life.

maybe it feels wrong
from the outside
but you can say no
like me, permissively,
insistently & we’ll still
want you with denial eyes,
within our expression,
to find, welcome you.

Friday, October 25, 2013

From 'The Geese' - Jorie Graham

...the real
is crossing you,

your body an arrival
you know is false but can't outrun. 

Sunday, July 21, 2013

experiment 54: 96 tears

darklive & unstudio shaking,
mother on the boardwalk,
the lake reflected dark mushroomcloud

‘look up’ – Mamma.

a weirdlygray swirling
Baetelgeuse gone supernova,
not yet bright, ‘but soon we’ll see
day 24/7 for some weeks,’
two suns, they say
electricgrayglow of stardust
yet to reach us.


like the voice aquiver,

she grabs my head, pushes my chin toward
the obscured stars—
‘look up’
i nod, jawlocked at the cyllindricalthing,
the thing with the unyet light
soon to shower us in gamma—

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Wednesday, March 20, 2013


Pink through wine's long legs
I see dogwood bark through glass–
I see it a'peeling.
It is no mist but a haze.
My flower is off a way.

"Percy's Quick Jump Across the World"

A muddled grey, translucent fog.
Blender of rations.
Open my sky wide and pinkening.
Shoelaces like fuses.
Ceramic bird, listen carefully.
His stinging sensation cries.
One time, I drilled a hole in the ground and filled it with beaks.
Grandma reclines on the porch in a flower dress.
Idiot countertop, you have a friend.
Carnival sawhorse going up and down.
A bladder slowly fills.
Open tennis court, we play chess left and right.
Wet rings hidden under a poem.
The courageous knight lives always inside.
Key growth, lower mobility, and strategic planning.
Fiction in a box?
Careworn little sterling
fingertips press into solemn keys
hands washed mash crudely
the delicate expression
beats like piano memories
beads of oil force on medium the pressure of newspaper deadlines
or a grocery list she is gone
from the red label to electric
and enchanting
the quick happening celebarated
like bicycles.  Independence
one's own publication at how
much was a free machine pushed
clutched a beautiful suitcase to
her breast knees clicking she had no idea
the electric rush
the quickening of what happens
after the modern the new
sincerity really meant.
Feel her prints know she said what
meant by someone else had also
been meant by her did
her fingers slip pushed by the music
the ether of atomized fossils
how quickly

Monday, February 11, 2013

A gorgeous poem by Prudence Groube

I saw the bathroom
caked in the yellow stain
of your crack pipe
and traced its smokey line
to the loading dock;
where we watched The Welder die.
It took three years as he swelled
fetid and blooming in the sun,
before suddenly dissolving.
We took longer.
Through palm trees, asphalt
and faded dreams,
no longer playing at the drive in.
It' s less romantic
when it's not in the movies.
Smokers cough and bad lighting
...and both of us
with inappropriately younger women.
The smut we made of ourselves
fitting -
The sooty shape, stained and yellow,
on the bathroom wall;
tracing the smokey history
of our crack pipe.

Tuesday, January 1, 2013