Poems

Displayed within, life’s moments extrapolated, tangible anguish, remnants of sorrow. With haphazard intent, encapsulated vestiges scattered…

Fifty feet of nylon line and a milk jug stretched across the bay. Twenty hooks, mostly trebles, hung waiting; chicken liver and dough balls luring them in.

To your villa they come– the sketchbooks, the cameras, parade past your clay mugs and plates, black lace mantillas that covered your legs, white wooden bed…

On the same bittersweet day | I gave each a name | And loved each alike.| On the same bittersweet day, | I rocked a crib | And commissioned a grave.

Tell me, in all your travels, have you ever seen the origin of the universe unfold before your eyes? I have… once. At night, a night on the Oregon coast.

Shamon, don’t give up. The stones are already in place, we merely need to step— One at a time. Don’t slip. Your shadow is only your low-hanging cape.
Onto it, sew your doubts.

Long before there was ever an oath in his name, Hippocrates knew there was nothing funny about the humors. He knew what real wounds were made of…

Oh, Rumi, | I do not want to hear this right now. | Don’t speak to me about bravery and sharp | compassion. | I have had howling hurt | And it sucks.