In her heart a maiden

what does it matter come the day
it’s only chatter what they say
she’s had her life, she’s old and grey
mad as a hatter anyway

she turns her head with with muted cry
to hear these words as they pass by
she knows how fast the years can fly
how all lifes plans can go awry

her winter feet now feel the chill
all steps become an act of will
but she can bear life’s bitter pill
while in her heart a maiden

Flickers of Light


To roam those miles in your eyes,
Through the lands of your devouring orchids,
Covered by lavender and purple orchids,
Your garden hides your daughters,

A bloodline of high priestess sovereignty,
You choose the path you take,
Your rights to status marks your best choices,

The flickers of light behind each eyelid,
My heart thumps each drum beat,
Those are my eyes how could they know,
Because they know what I’m hiding,
This paranoia is becoming intoxicating,

I fill my days with 8 thousand variations,
Clip art impersonations and cups of tea to wash away the toxins,
Boolean logic fated by a roll of a dice,
No path certain,
No fate met.

from: Pocahontas, Alcoholism, The Compass, & The Word.

The shadow 
stays dry as the waves 
collapse. 

For almost a full decade I
have not used the strong
drugs of illumination
yet the hunches gather into
something formidable, the
doorways in space are open still,
but I nod & I indicate again
that I decline, feeling
I could tear along the dotted
line of beach, rip the ocean
from the land, twist myself
right off calendar time.
Poets, after all…

Walking past the Bars, seeing the
padded circular stools,
lit, from the doorway
in pools of communicable light,
does tempt my song-quest enter
in with Dylan, Berryman, Hank
Chinaski closing an eye on
one of the licentious lady poets
out, after lunch, in search of material,
the younger people vaping nicotine,
the one-toke spot, the single malt
spiral burn turning in the wide
free area of the night, a safety net
of days off.
Isolation is sheer, sharpest

together, it is reaching into
the soapy hot water of the sink
with the knives no one told you
were in there, fly-wing thin edge
on the broken pint knocked off
the stammering table, so deadly
almost invisible; together alone
the singer moans, the unsharable
singularity of two sheets of glass
come together sliding heavily,
easy, impenetrable actual solitude
of being and I haven’t real longing
for that racing of each other up

the smoke, along the white lines, besides,
time & culture have left me behind,
this new team goes off at needle-point,
their confabulated embroideries,
amazing skin being replaced
with idle thoughts, the inklings
scholars classify as primitive
acceptance rites.

On Observing The Pensioner

Push Her Heart Rate
Into The Transcendental State

I picked her quickly
as a regular
in the wall-to-ceiling mirrors:
sixty something front-on,
28 years old from behind.

The nineteen eighties
aerobics and coke, cane furniture
her mother complained
about, the clothesline
of small sighs, lycra
on the muscle properly.

Her page is never updated
they notice, she has never
added a comment,
a few likes, moved by caffeine
or loneliness, and she does
accept befriending, so
they know she looks
through the obsequious
intel-front.

But they’re asking
each other what
is she running from?
Does she think Death
won’t find her at the gym?
Two full marathons annually
does their dumpling heads in.

And that is where I see you,
wearing your diploma of proof,
junk tertiary bond of our birth
certificates, that your lived life
uncommented, satisfies,
and ignoring it is happening,
Death, without forgetting,
it is likely there are more years
lived than years left myself
but I am putting extra hours in the
pool, the half k more, the hill
instead of once around
the shoe-indented
shock-absorbent racecourse,
the push-ups on the cool down,
something in the headphones,
maintaining a slow heart
oh, the insubstantial of it all!—
sit-ups the crunches
the lawn regulation, world
made matter by our words,
Mind made world by our words,
made sane by our manicured
& manic pruning of thoughts,
sympathetic to the need to expand,
express being different,
cut closely enough the same
true, cut false, into the hedge—
by which, hawthorn or gorse,
I mean the habits approved, life, is our
funeral, the body is where
we come
to die.