the buck moon

I’m so very thrilled that a new poem of mine, the buck moon, was included in this wonderful magazine!
Into the Void, is available in both print and digital form.

Included in ‘Nine New Lit Mags You Need to Read’ as one of “nine new journals that appeared on the scene within the past couple of years and have already made their mark on the literary landscape” in the November/December 2016 Issue of Poets & Writers.”

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festooned chaos

since Halloween is near and my soon-to-be printed (yea) book
is due mid-December or earlier (yea)
I’m posting the only verse in love of the monster
that pays direct homage to this most wicked and deliciously sweet celebrationfestooned-chaos-text-color

love of the monster, is a black and white illustrated book
color was added here to protect the innocent;)

I remember now

can’t remember the last time I was in love with earth
witnessing her miraculous gifts
appreciating silent nature
rather than absorbing pixel and pen minutia

stunning my drowsy eyes was this unexpected moment
4:20 am
it was the moon I needed to touch
his large, low gloriously warm pulse in lusty azure
barely cloaked in the fading veil of night
the taffy-stretched shadow of a red sunset maple
stretched across the dark grass
as if she too, desired infinite perfection
stars tucked away in their opaque shells for another night
this was the moon’s moment
my moment
with him
I stood frozen
immobile
and not for the frost assaulting the holes of old moccasins
I peeked through my eyelashes to capture his light
to practice this magic in my mind
committing him to memory
and why I have the good fortune to breathe
etching my soul with our rehearsed minutes
before anxious society attempts to rub my magic out
racing on all compass lines
4:35 am
I remain in the exact same spot
craving forever
knowing the sun will wipe him away
my beautiful moon

wish I could tell you
4:20 am
brilliant gentle fingering rays
enticed me from my lazy bed
the dark truth
4:20 am
my Dachshund needed to urinate

I remember now–
I’m honestly in love with earth

Praying Wizard

Praying Wizard

prosy things

Xaira writes prosy things. Words are tiny red ants mercilessly marching without rest, without sleep. No rejuvenation. Only midnight thoughts, caressing keys like a lover’s flesh or beating the polymer into submission–bully steward with a fidgety wordstick. She is unable to reconcile the happenings inside her body. Xaira lives on the outside looking in from safe distances. She is a tool for the thoughts she claims not to own. Speedboats powering across indecipherable notes kept in a dull black folder. One of several scattered throughout her living space.

She cannot come to terms with her prose–her prosy things. Once the shit slides down the chute, she is no longer in control. Pregnancies never realized. Incomplete humans. She has children. Carried them. Pushed them out. Loved them. Left them. Not sure where they are. Her concern over blood offspring is exclusively for plotting and outline. A mirror to direct a piece of her parceled soul. Xaira exhales for each cogent metaphor. Inhales for each selective allusion. A randomness settles in the air as the night grows thick with complex assertions and exhausted denials. Where does the writing crystallize. Conclusions and closures to build another anthill. Tunneling through the sand, fall and fall, collapsing in weak sections killing the worker-smythes of the folded, gathered and crushed.

Xaira claims no responsibility for her paradoxical musings. Any emotional attachments are not considered. She has room enough only for her creations. Her mind. At least that’s what they say but not better than her. And yet, she has grave doubts. Doubts dwelling in the bottomless corners of her round life. The cobwebs swept away, mine swept to nothingness. Beginning blankly each and every evening. It is always beneath the ever present sky up there. Best when it’s dark and void of the sun’s bright eyes. There is no honesty in the long shadows of moonlight. Xaira once had a wry sense of humor and an easy going smile. Now her fingernails are chewed, the brittle pieces catching in the rug beneath her desk. The only happiness for her is pretending there are those who care for her misunderstood, over-labored prosy things.

She hunts the black cold air. Winter will be bitter this year, the ants will struggle then disappear…

alien eyes

quick sketch last year, thank you

winery night and bouncing balls

“…don’t you know that I gotta get outta here, ’cause New York’s not my home” –Jim Croce

mind not with me for quite some time
body went out though
knee-high grass parking
set back in dark pasture land, maybe once a cornfield
my nose like a basset hound’s
I catch grape bouquets
imagine sweet dark berry assortments to be offered
the tiny sample glasses make me feel more giant
this makes me giggle
got wedges on, I’m flirtin’ with six feet but not the moon
paper lights strung around blowing in the delicious breeze
yellow hair walking everywhere looks white in the fading light
bright spots like sparkles on the ocean
my friend–one of my best, we’re out for a chat and a drink
I’m thinking about a decadent red, only one
I’m designated this eve
we made a pledge to get together more often
and sample different places
what a blast driving the Explorer through the long grass faster than I should
sparkly sandals and tight white pants aplenty
relaxed postures not worried about making first impressions
most are comfortable in their own skin by now
love that benefit
this is a relaxed crowd
laughter filtering off wine bottles on wooden tables
it’s a gorgeous night
all night spots should be outdoors
you can look at the stars when you don’t want to look at faces
the band starts blowing
this is going to be thick brass
four horns at a winery
and there goes the music
these folks are jammin’ more than I thought they would
a giant ball bounces into the air
it takes out one of the stage microphones
that’s as rowdy as it gets
these types of cover bands usually play, Brown Eyed Girl
most caramel irises believe the song was written for them
it calls them in droves to the dirt floor dance area
not too many songs pine over brown, it’s usually crystal blue or sea green
but always red lips
the wine does not disappoint
we chuckle something fierce at the wide breadsticks
yes, sometimes we get a little dirty-minded
the indoor bar area has a copper surface
I can’t take my eyes off the gorgeous reflections
we get our wine to go, adult-size plastic for our walk back out
it was a wonderful night
I don’t have a pen but I’m punching phone buttons
all thumbs
so I remember this

winery“Well, things were spinning round me
And all my thoughts were cloudy
And I had begun to doubt all the things that were me
Been in so many places
You know I’ve run so many races
And looked into the empty faces of the people of the night
And something is just not right” –Jim Croce

do we know

there is a place
do we know
do they
where wind blows to sow forests
insects crawl beneath shade 
no matter beliefs
ocean waves crash back and forth
pulling and taking and giving back
circling the hands of time
moon, comets, sun
arrive and leave and return
purple sands conceal water
bombastic rocks jag the horizon
steam rises from thick emerald tangles
they have not a thought
only sheer mechanics
who scorches earth
waters gardens
holds hands and kisses mouths
cleanses injured
prays, screams, moans, mourns, laughs
with the commonality of desire
of a need
those who utter its uselessness
or lack of purpose
are liars
we all love
we do
all love
and there is a place
we might share
covered in blue
do we know
do they
sasquatch
difficult reading the newspaper some mornings
this illustration I created last year, to me this represents peace and love and kindness and humanity

a dirge from beneath the dirt

hand printif it’s a winged effigy you want
a dirge from beneath the dirt
of someone
who tried to be someone
she died attempting to leap
through Saturn’s hoops
but the man in the moon
was not the gentleman he was purported to be
that guy plays a tripping low lit thief
stealing each day a bit more
whenever the sun grows tired
honor-bound roses
placed with tearful lips

(you know how she feels about flowers)
odiferous funeral parlors
thorny squatters on her cold headstone
with the audacity to die on the already dead
blood crimson of their selected petals
slapping her corpse with hues no longer pumping
she is most certainly a shade of soft blue by now
like the daytime sky
even at night

imagine
if she had lived her life
as a someone
her body would have been preserved
and all this could have been avoided
print back
bye, bye blackbird