June 17, 2020


He gives to me my necklace
And I cannot speak the words
Purple, blues.... bauble shapes
I only can observe

Why did I receive this gift?
I'm shy by my surprise
He says "You did so well
That you deserve
a necklace.
Never tell."


You know how these things smell like flowers. Buds and stems, buds and stems. Sometimes, they seem invisible...  their strangling scent owning vision too. It's not what I wanted, this odor too strong and inappropriate. So inappropriate. It is my own. Mine to play with. Arrange and plan. And they are here. Just because they are expected to be here. My own mind, pulling from the typical. And that is wrong. And I delete it.

Starting again. These things are like something I've orbited. Toyed with when I thought it was the time. I should have planned better. The scape is nearly dead. I don't know what to choose but subconscious is the best medicine. Spoonful. I pull memories... shapes... and hold them like play dough. Skin... warm faces... smiles in neon... lighted signs in our own happy language. I read you, made you, and I will display you well. Dismounted and adorned.

You know how these things smell of nothing. Rich nothing. Safe and sightless. This is more right than the putrid flower, the clog and compressor. I need room to shed and disrobe. I am flattened and skinned. It's a fresh sight to be strewn among the fragility... deflated and pale. I say something of remorse to my old shape and kiss could haves good bye. I can't be with you anymore. Not me. Not the awakened, alert me that can remember... that learned what it was to have a memory so linear and precise. I can't live in you.

A fake fever, a fake death. To hollow away this sick. You know how these things must be. No visitors, no tears because in this new place they do not exist - they can't. Glazing blankness, cross of fingers... This will work. Fingers to lips. Adieu, free flow... You know these things must be.


"I think I might swing all the way up tonight," she remarks to her bruised palms. He overhears and presses her curls into his mouth and begs her not to go. She says its important for her to try and not to keep her still. She likes the wind against her face and and the pump inside her calves.
Maggie slips away to sleep. She finds her solitary swing, takes her seat and lazily rocks back and forth. She meets the breeze...finds the rhythm and kicks back to start. Her feet stretch up and out. Her aching palms grip the cool, silvery chains.

Maggie likes it when the fog rolls in. She can no longer see her toes ahead of her. She doesn't know where the gound and sky meet and her hair has lost it's curl. She mounts higher and higher until she swings the full circle and passes the threshold of her dream.

She awoke by him. He kissed her blue palms and the color melted away. She stayed white from that eve on.

He from the Sea

the moon shallow dives to meet you

under a midnight sea

you never looked more lovely than this time

wearing 4 feet of tide

an oceanic light

shuffling your private deck of cards

suits of flowers and a crystalline count

your game is insatiable

the way you swap poppies for lavender

your eyes dressed in book bindings

i sit quietly tucked under water lilies

swallowing your incantations

the murmurs of your dewy heart

i'm nourished as only empty can be...

by you.

in your palest skin

flush drained to the sea

the blossoms......the winking stars...

i wish I’d been the one to build your play

dream the colors and set them to tune

the essence of light, sky sugar digits

so pure...

you never waver

only to bleed your grin

for the petal ripples

the bite of the figure

you know what's underneath