i wake with an ache
deep in my mouth, so
deep it’s in my teeth,
like i’ve been holding on
to you in my sleep, shaking
you in my grip, tasting
you with my lips, tongue,
throat, bones, roots, need.


give & receive

taking and receiving
are not the same.

receiving requires open
hands: waiting, breathing,

trusting; it’s
softer, slower.

taking is
like a jab:

in & out, getting
what you need,

reaching in with
one hand while

keeping a fist up
at the face.

are you on
the take?

hungry to

or are you listening,
watching, breathing,

ready to wait; to
linger; to hurt;

to bleed: are you
ready to receive?


the first time you
play out the skele-
ton of a song, you
hear the flesh be-
coming; you

dress the beautiful
bones like a doll. the
rush of blood and
breath comes last, once
it’s all assembled and

cast into the world
for her to sing along.
then, it will never be the
same; then, it will never
sound like that very first

time. your job is to
create, to not think past
that, to let it all happen, to
feel the full measure; whole-
note stomping in—then, out.

quietly ecstatic

when you wake, the film is
still over your eyes. do not rush to
wipe it away. before sleeping last night
you watched a fire-works show behind your
lids. the sparking center was a homing beacon.

now you are pseudo-awake and sitting with it.
the drip in the kitchen sink keeps you grounded.
the grit under your feet reminds you of being born.
the voices will keep coming, flowing into you, if you only
remain open. do not close; do not tidy up; do not cover yourself:

see yourself laughing, out among the stars.
watch yourself flying, honoring that primordial part.
you are setting the stage, setting the words and worlds a-
blaze. half of your active life is past. keep building, making
things that last. you did not think that it was possible to feel this full.

this book

ice columns

ice columns build in
secret, under cover of
night—-where hard and
soft merge, thousands of
miles from where families of
mesas converge; between time-
smoothed tables, dragon-flies sew
their sighs. i stand apart as a singular
out-line, bending to the will of the wind,
watching my obsessions maturing. this book
cannot be its own source; every thing must come
from some thing: on this auto-mated path to death,
i am honored by the fiber-glass food-chain of my life.

face formation

behind the blue ridge

every thing is
shape and shadow;
every thing holds
light and depth and a
hollow core leading
to more.

there are six
sides to
every story:
hex-a-gon s
building their
sacred geometry,

while the eyes in
the bedside table
engrain the lines into
their cell memory:
translucent pools of
been here before.

the way your voice
dips low and mine
climbs high; the way
the wonder hides
as we rush to fill
the lush space:

parallel universes
hushed in black & white;
the occasional punch
of color
makes me

red-head-ed love,
trapped and floating
up a shaking spine of stairs—
leading to the stars,
leading to the little
prince of every where.