get up and sing

she tells me to get up and sing.

but that seems to go against everything.


singing is for things with wings.


i used to have wings.

i used to suck the marrow out of them.


but this passage of time . . .

this long, harrowing voyage—

with all its mysterious baggage—


has left me standing alone on a

platform in the middle of the sea.


i want to jump off the seawall.


why can’t the devil be saved?


if love is that big,

that all-encompassing,

then why does he remain lost?


neither height, nor depth,

nor principalities, nor powers,

nor things present, nor things to come

shall separate us from the love of god…


is it because he is

one of the principalities?

one of the dark divides?


did he choose that?

can he choose not to be?


is he a he? an it? a piece of all of us?


is it that he/it/we will just never admit

to needing to be saved?


how long can wrath take the wheel

before it submits?


are we that self-destructive,

that self-loathing, that we would

rather die for an eternity than

admit we are broken?


i don’t know.


maybe this is why we get up and sing:


because everything else is just too hard,

and i’m tired of teetering

on the edge of nothing.


summer of the painting

i want to live in a

light house.





these wrinkles

and lines need


something to open

and close


with a light



you have the



you are starting

to believe it.


you are starting to

love your self





a solitary wing

with its lantern


pair flapping in the



a flickering




the seasons;


a window;

a wind—


to speak through

and in and on


and on

and anon.


Song of the Wayland, Anselm Kiefer





i stepped into an apartment once,
the basement apartment of a poet;

i could smell it in the cedar,
in the ink and terracotta.

i wanted to stay until she came back;
i wanted to know her, be in her

circle, trace her curves as she
spun her words from the earth.

too small, my friend said—
this apartment is too small.

i left with an ache that
stayed with me for days.

on my way out i touched a green
stone on a shelf by the door:

it may have been sea glass,
it may have been my birth stone,

it may have been my
birth right to say

i’m staying.

Art: Sea Glass by Jean Avenidas

the valve of the unvitiated moment


she knows that this is a floating

time on a floating ship, that she is

the floating, not the ship, nor the

captain, and that every thing outside of


time and space is the static pulled

taut across seas that hangs gray

garments in place and occasionally

dances and sings and means; in the valve


of the unvitiated moment she sees

the delicate moving of a good and

gentle quiet, like the breath of moth

wings against a hungry breeze.