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Thursday, December 26, 2013

"Life Direct" Published in Southwestern American Literature



















Proud to have my poem "Life Direct" in the latest issue of Southwestern American Literature.
The poem itself is a result of rough writing through my "Give me This Day my Daily Spam" project.

Monday, December 16, 2013

Holidays on Fire



(a poem ending with a line from Milton)

yet in the August sun, you desire weight, skin
for shedding, dripping in salty constellation

their swollen fetuses falling around you, the medical
names for flesh inspire necrotic scabs

turbulent angels worm into your mind
to wonder what flies are worth

each a ghost lifting the bubble of disease
around the world, how the nets are torn

not only in a chorus, but a choral echo
of buzz and hum, and on your masterful lips

a prayer, bloated, illuminates like a cautionary tale
the hailstorm is bitter, expletives drop to their knees

in a skewered communion, liturgy is red meat
lift your voice with the bench of fire-breathers and all

the candles you burn assume the shadows,
from those flames, no light, but rather darkness visible



Thursday, December 5, 2013

parcel



deliver me
the details, number
the legs, trace your fingers
around the space
where loneliness takes it
the hardest, lonely teeth

mouth our bodies, let
our elephants trek
the folded skin
of Hannibal’s escape

march me
through your pass,
let us screw

this up, leaving
crumpled satin trumpets
along the toll roads
of our retreat




Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Backstory



The first snow combs the sky.
Under a cotillion weight of so many icy maidens,
branches dip with their scores of graying juniper.

Crystalline blooms huddle
on the rotunda. These ladies bring nothing

but myths of symmetry. Maybe
midweek, sun enough will

drop them, bring them to tears
among the stones. May's thaw
will wrestle the gin from the conifers.
They’ll compose a fable

in the slope
of my nose.



Saturday, November 30, 2013

First Things




we call him
Morning Report, and he is  
frailer than I remember,
  
he taps
the open gourds
with his cane
tells me

where the elk went,
how many golf balls
he held, quail
how many
and how young, do I

recall the wildfire
that peaked the ridge
and the goats
imported to clear
the underbrush—was it
willow? did I know

a tree can still burn
underground
creating a bowl
of embers, like
a heat puddle
capable of cooking
a javelina, step
carefully—even days
after the smoke clears

but the roses
did so well
that summer, 
the ashes
do it

daybreak’s
watchman walks  
with phonetic
patience
past the Pioneer
Cemetery

eyes the stones
like a bachelor
pondering
his dance card,
building
tomorrow’s
report should he be
blessed 
with one more
morning






















Walking in Gratitude, Poets United