the queen of afterthoughts

i’m the only one

the puppy won’t love.


maybe it would have been me,

eventually, who cheated.


inside, i think i am safe;

but i just feel tiny.


i twist and turn, a mini-cube

trying to solve all my problems.


you started dying in utah.


the three of us were outsiders;

together, deep in thought.


now you are both gone.


she’s always there, now,

when i dream of you.


this means something.


meanwhile, my girl holds up the

walls; blocks the door, the windows.


her arms are exhausted.


and she is wading into the

deep water of adulthood.


we are always building

i miss the feeling of shaking

from something other than


anger, other than fear. i go

to my window and look for the


little flowers of hope. they are

every where; fragments amid


very long sentences: the swallow

tail, the barn swallow, the migrating


monarch. your energy goes where it’s

needed; there, it meets the energy it needs.


fire is friction.

imagine these are real:


a tiny wild child on your knee,

a tired dictator on the other, the


view of your own face from the

inside; they are all in the arena


with you: daring greatly.

we are always building: bridges,


portals, spirals, spaceships—

without knowing. all the


water droplets are being

summoned into one


stream, here at the

intersection of all things.



we saw each other

i thought i saw a white hat

passing by my house.


it was just the tip of a

flag; it was just used as a


weapon of war.

to be a cone in


training, to be washed

up on the shore so far


from your mother drum—

from where you also came


from: you can’t hear your

heart beat any more.


you think others are erasing

you, but you are erasing


your self—strike by strike,

gun by gun.


we all came

from a woman;


we all lay helpless

at the tit and grew.


we used to be



now we beg, borrow,

steal, kill—


in the name

of history.


our birth is our

birth-right: a gestalt


of will. we were all

there at the beginning.


we saw each other

across the


great expanse

and knew.




i thought i lost you:

on my own—


twist of lightning;

home alone.





a paradox of



first steps,

first stay,


first time

driving away;


the lonely light house

winks at the bay.


and we lay, we lay,

we lay down our dark


arms and rub up against

the furry light of day.





i wake in the night to a

different realm; pulled from


my fuzzy yellow refuge. the

voices i meet are darker, thicker,


carrying something un-

speakably heavy across the


dimensions. every one i have

ever known—even my own


sisters, mother, father: sleeping

just feet from me—feel thousands


of memories away. i alone am

standing watch; am a crumbling wall


between what i thought i knew and the





i don’t know why they are

visiting upon me; but one thing


i do know as i crouch in the deep-

dark pockets of the hallway, shaking


and weeping and lost:      i am


some nights the moon is a train

it takes me a while

to love things.


but then i am

loyally locked in.


the colonial blue

house holds the


key, but no door.

in the back-ground,


the long bow of the

cello sings up from


the depths. one floor up,

children grow in their


beds. dad used to tease

about putting us in a vice


overnight. i took his words

to heart: the dreams that


shortened me still follow—

strong shadows of


nails and hair; of things

that once lived, fighting


to weave them-selves

back in, back to life.


some nights the moon

is a train. i am boarding


her, i am carrying

alstroemerias, i am


smiling as the tiny

gear of a whisper


turns. the shrieking,

pulsing, turning to


blood is all in my

head; out-side, the


view is silent: a giant

wheel of compliance.




dust has nothing to fear

i’m on a long journey, and

i don’t know the way.


the dust under my feet

has nothing to fear;


it’s been here before,

but it has a lot to say—


to the fingers, to the

rib-cage, to this feast, to


the miles walked across

this beach: once you are


thus reduced, you can only

transform into some thing


new—a diamond, a sand-

storm, a brilliant planet.


take every thing that is

happening, every thing you


feel, every thing you keep

silent, every thing you shout—


and kneel: turn it,

churn it into art.


it is the only way in,

and the only way out.