happy

Pilots, too old

to fly, transport

walnuts. Proportion

matters—salted

butter, stone ground

flour, a plump

sound of unzip. A smile’s width,

a clipped finger nail

circles the drain. Minimal

moon dancing in

a shallow bowl, stirred so.

*

Aspen groves

groom. Citrus

pyramid insomnia.

The wife’s one

private dream, the jaunting key

delivers her dairy aisle.

*

Husband: snowy midriff

Chiffon:  fine, and open.

Paramount

Loaded, she could have

taken a shot

at his intentions. High-

postured, shaking like

a spent cartridge.

He pulls cat hair
from the barrel. Fine mess

you have all made. Piss

moisture licks at his shoes. The names
in his address book slouch

in an inky draw. Rat carcasses

dot the floor. He teeters
paint cans on a mound

of silenced fur. Well, she agreed.

The rank spray of memory
burrows into the barn wall
with dust and lead. ¿Cómo 
se dice “alive”? He coughs.

Stellar work, honeycomb.

Paint, pull, splatter. Art buries bone.

Featured Gem

On a slow noon Saturday, the pioneers remain

buried. A dented, turquoise Windstar

crawls up the half-circle

needle and gravel driveway.  The Witnesses

are recruiting, but first we’ll talk

hunting, the upward and onward

of trekking Mogollon trails, of blinds

and shallow hiding, masking our scents.

Ruefully, we’ll speak of the fire-ravaged

bark-beetle pine forest, which brings us back

to why he’s here: to dispel

my notions of Hell, to speak

of lions and lambs sitting

at evening tea, reminiscing

about the old days of chase. In this

new earth the rock lizards will cradle

quail eggs, nod gently and whisper

the over and under of reclaiming the bounty

of lost tails in a one-off light.

Have You Spoken

Coagulate is a beautiful word, co-

meaning together and -agulate, the eponymous

heroics once perpetrated by Agula

under grandmother’s yak-skin tent. Aristocracy

was a gorgeous demand; her mouth

jellied with the gristle of wild duck. Like this,

history’s women create words. Hygiene from the story

of Hygienea the wise midwife who rang the birthing cloth

with acidic fats. Confidence means “with Fidencia”

the Frankish bulwark who stood against

the czar and folded the edicts into insects. Pageant from full-lipped

Pagean who charmed waterfalls into rainbows. Sojourn

from the woman who walked the Americas, praying

like the ravens in Aztlán. Yasmin, tomorrow

we will speak you, beyazzed with blessings,

yasminified from fear incarnate.

Invocation at HOOT Postcard Review

My poem, "Invocation", is now on HOOT Review Online (Issue 21, June 2013).
It's a cool concept, literary postcards. 

Solar Power

after John Farmer

Fair Phyllis takes her photos hot

and feeds the trash her cold receipts.

As Amyntas weeds the forget-me-nots,

She logs on with wolf's deceit.

Her inbox stuffed with men,

Phyllis is looking to be lost again.

Chronic Pain

I extinguish the leafy, warm lamp.

Behind my daughter’s elemental

mind, a second

mind spins; it captures

that moment’s pig, squeaking

with a voice that separates worldly love

from a spiritual love. You can’t compare it

to the drown and out medication

sinking her like the bricks

of Atlantean streets.

Flickering stops

quickfire thoughts; development curls
the branches of a Trinitarian tree over her

sleeping pillow, wipes everything new,

hushes the furnace of

each aching synapse.

Her night bear stitches the

seashells to her pain. You can’t

show this type of love human 
to human. Still, sandy blonde matted,
eyes marbled, she clenches a Roseart yellow

crayon in her vengeful teeth. She swings

the monster’s club,

observes my heart,

discovers lost cousins

in the indian forests.