who knows what can happen between moments.

a secret can live only as long the crows say nothing.

until the sleeves of every strait jacket are forever unfolded

& they return what they’ve taken from the Earth.

what you do with yr aura & its shadow is nobody’s business.

it wasn’t the thorns covered in my fingerprints

but the way one begins to see magic where once was explanation 

, what with none of yr calendars asking questions?

when we keep time by how many loaves? how many fishes?

reality strikes down the gong.

I was talking to my cigarette all night lit up with escape routes & green tea.

in studio apartments of the mind the oven door 

stays open all winter & there’s never any reason

to distinguish a thought from a humming bird.

a black marigold in the breast pocket is a concealed weapon

when you’ve spent yr life fighting something invisible.





folding a hand to a fist 

& calling on a murder of crows

to bring back the seeds of secret winter.


the wind is again paralyzed. 

it becomes impossible to move

from present to past.


what they call death is a falling pinecone.

the way one doesn’t question a doorframe

in an earthquake. 


what else can you do 

when the key cutter sees through you—


will you greet yr grain

or will you drum for yr own shadow—


will you laugh like hawk eyes

or will you drive yr tears over the edge.


every voice of us overthrown

for every reason to be anything else.

opening every river when looking back.

for the various colors of dust

infiltrating yr shoes with 5’9″

of cause & effect.


on street corners & in dank rooms

where solace lingers for 30 years

on the tip of the tongue

or in the pit of the stomach,

unseen as yr life flashing

before your eyes.


until it does.



STRAY, No. 3


I spend the life of a cigarette

returning minerals to the Earth

in my mind

the tears of this walking coffin

cross the street with me

where eyes would be regularly

attached to dreams of fish nets 

& a leg to stand on.

death all around us

like the architecture of silent carnivals

when we don’t know what to do

about the bombs, the guns, the tanks

, the coldness kept between us—

broadcasted live from bent spoon street corners

where the voices of the dead carry our infinities

on their shoulders with the rent money & the ways out

, everyone secretly on their knees 









always a secret implosion inside

to remind you nature doesn’t have to ask.

hit me with the truth right between the eyes

or else what is the use of speaking. 

what use is this burning bush

I’ve been dreaming of since

before there was a greatest story to 

remind you of orchards & flower beds.

before fear was a marketing plan.

before you could walk you danced 

& before you could see you cried.

when they tell me Johnny Appleseed was in the garden

I laugh & see through them, my naked eyes.

these just the repercussions of cross-examining former selves for a decade.

may we all have the strength to begin again. and again.

no way out except within. to be sure, turn yr eyes

from stem to stern every once in a while.

politicians will say anything to insist they aren’t drowning.

the difference between a rose & a trash heap

giving secret lighthouses to those who refuse to

pray with the anchorman & his sinking ship.



Source Materials:

New Heart Sutra translation by Thich Nhat Hanh (Plum Village)

Madness and Solitude in Kahlil Gibran (Hermitary)

Implosion, re: Astrophysics (Wikipedia)