Poetry

And the tadpoles still live Under the frosted creek With the ice forming crystal spirals...

Writing seems easier after clinging—pinchgrip—to one of Gaia's nipples...

I am the wild Every arrowed pine standing tall and felled low...

Candles rise from my birthday cake like skeletal fingers flipping me the bird

There is nothing alive on the Sun.  The things not alive on the Sun  are not. The nothing alive on

signing a clipboard for porpoises of saving the seas telling a whale of a tale to me

It is the truth that your hand is fit for mine As the pure moon is fit to cover the sun As the light is fit to glow a rainbow over the trees

At the hour when daylight wanes, My sister’s message comes— “Father asks when you will go

As a child, I fell asleep on a mattress in the woods thinking myself to be a fairy princess.

The milk has spoiled In the green refrigerator, Curdling in its cardboard carton And stinking up the place.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words If that saying was true Then I’d have been able to speak about you until

Oh, lover with a perfect face Clothed in lace She graces his presence And skin peeks through; silk and smooth

A soup, a salad, and a sandwich, my perfect trifecta. I eat while I watch the lions of

Sure, the snake slithered us into sin: we  wouldn’t put the damned fruit back (we still adore the juicy knowledge) if we could.

The homeland, with ancestral bones, Has paved bright rails of iron— Stretching onward, ever onward,

This cybertruck with a guy doing cybersex with a silicon AI soothing his consumer conscience

It took ten tricks to get the lamp fire lit shivering snowbank souls at the top of the stairs consolation prizes huddled close humping against

I don't know how much longer I can stand My legs are beginning to splinter          beneath my weight

Because the oblong world, it makes me scry, and the wind— psilocybin.

cell phone swells: slouching alert!  towards Bethlehem today.

--- wrote to Peter in 1969 that like St. Valentine Christopher is now a discarded saint. Who wrote to Christopher, who wrote back,

Running on concrete with bare feet And hearing the rocks clatter behind. Singing loud and proud in a new tongue

Before the vernal breath, be bold—speak love aloud; Before the blossoms, whisper of their fragile fall, Of drifting petals, and a grace distilled from age.

Beautiful you, it’s you through the rue of spring’s first kiss:

The mourning dove is known by a nostalgic but sad call...

I hold your absence Like a quiet wisp, Because time forgets you.

O’ careless one free me from the shackles that I placed upon mine own aching wrists.  Let the warming breeze fall fresh