Saturday, May 12, 2012


The hot protest of your mouth
when you bite your lip
and taste blood and angels
is that moment I believe in God.

I once found him
in a basket of your bones
where you made him a song
and made me a believer
with your dangerous thoughts

and the sweet heresy of your wings...

Friday, May 11, 2012


All he left you
was the fear of flying -
the accidental tilt of gravity
against the air
and pull of atmosphere
that cracked the ceiling
of your bedroom.

You thought he must be Icarus
from the scent
that tattered the sheets
and the soft, white down
you mistook for rapture -
a sweet tryst of love
and friction.

But the sun
was cruel that day -
abrupt and lethal,
beckoning you to the window
to study how he wore
the April morning
and watch as ecstacy

made criminals of his words.

Saturday, May 5, 2012


She would break his heart
in ways he knew
he could grow to love -

how she spoke his name
like smoke,
drawing it out
in cool blue syllables
between her teeth,
her mouth talking that sweet trash
he coveted like new coin.

the red spike heels
he could feel crack his spine
and the slit of her eyes
stripping his muscles and tendons
down to tender shoots
crushed against her chest -
her bones on his,

the sound of being played.

Friday, May 4, 2012


Unhinge my thoughts
with the images
tucked under your blouse -
soft offerings of lace
that pull twilight's edge
wrapping my fingers
in silk stung knots
that unfasten buttons
and ripple your clothes
and leave me enthralled.

Unsettle my world
with the syllables
tucked under your tongue -
those sweet consonants and vowels
that lovers keep hidden,
stripping words down
to primal sounds
that chase down the dark,
and let my mouth wander
and trespass at will.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

Bad Love

She loved you like three miles of bad road
the kind of love that peels your skin back
and hangs on you in strips of stained cotton
where the sweat beads up,
or gathers deep in your pockets
with lint and black jujubes
and grows twisted with no air.

She made you believe you were her savior
the kind of guy who crashes cars
in cemeteries at night
while angels play strip poker,
or paints masterpieces with his eyes sewn shut
and reads her body
like a blind man at church.

She pulled you under her low tide
the kind of place where you can walk on water
as long as no one is watching
while she kisses your scars
and studs your frail, white body with leeches,
begging you for forgiveness.

Thursday, April 19, 2012


I caught you
walking out on wires again,
falling out my window
in a trick so beautiful
that your father wept
and your lover
held his breath.
You called it
an act of defiance
in that voice
that brings me to my knees
and begs me
to argue with you
when you know
that all I really want to do
is strip the pain
from your insides
and bed you
like war.

Friday, April 13, 2012

Night Song

Show yourself to me again -
let me trace your features
where memory is afraid to hide,
and the battle of words
knows a prolonged and easy peace.

Teach me what is brilliant
in the dull surprise of unsung notes
and a heart too full of magic
to know its own mind
or find its way back
to the first ease of our beginning.

Speak to me in your riddles
and mysteries,
those enthralling syllables
whose meaning you have stolen
and wear like a silken skin
around your naked thoughts
lest I pluck them from you.

Take me in slow inches
and dress what cannot be fathomed
in soft wishes,
lost in the ashes and whispers of words
where the wicked moon hangs her gypsy heart...

Tuesday, April 10, 2012


He wasn't anything
she wanted in a man -
she found his mouth confusing
and the pierce of his gaze
unsettled her
and made her skin feel small.
He asked too many questions
with the brandish of his hips
and his tongue broke promise
with the stories mother told
about good girls and heaven.

She did not like the way
his eyes counted the buttons
on her shirt like angels
or the rude words
that raked against her dreams
and made perfect sense
or how the way he said her name
under his breath
made that place between her hips
go rough like August....

Monday, April 2, 2012


Her love is like
well worn gloves -
willow green soft
with supple fingers,
the tips taut
and splitting the cloth
textured like May,
urging me to peel back
the tight weave
and run my hands
under her fabric
and explore her seams.
buttery suede
with crevices like new milk,
bursting the stitches
where I run her threadbare
and smooth
under my heart.

Friday, March 30, 2012


The truth is,
you like the way he used you
and did not find you delicate and kept you awake
with the spare change of his mouth.
He called you goddess
and you believed him,
his hands pressing your knees
back to the wall,
crippling your expensive words
into stick figures.
You liked feeling his need for you
in the tight knot
where his belt
bullied your skirt
and the way the sky went empty
when he touched you
became your religion;
but the stitches in his heart
tripped up your feet
and broke you like a vagrant
who crept low
under the dimming stars.

Thursday, March 22, 2012


I feel you in my fingertips
far removed from the sterile magic
of the day's long end
the pale drone of traffic in rain
and soft confusion of streetlamps
bleeds to puddle grey
where light refracts
your shadow on the glass
and startles the night sky
with yearning.
I long to run my fingertips
down your nose
and bridge your lips
like psalms sung out of tune
and let the rhythm of your mouth
take root in my palms
and grow into something

Monday, March 19, 2012


His smile
wasn't the sort of thing
you wanted to mess with
when it crawled over his face
and pulled the corners of his mouth
down like pincers
crab mean and splintered

It sort of went slack behind the eyes
and reminded you
of the fetal pigs
you used to dissect,
pulling their slick webbed bodies
up out of the formaldehyde
and slapping them
wet on the glass

And when he whistled
you could see the end of the world
flicking off his lips,
with cigarette smoke curling up,
beading the blue of your night
with the sweet taint
of asphyxiation.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

The Fall

He tempted her
with wanton riddles and guessing games
ripe skin
and tender fruit
that burst on her tongue like summer.
He made promises in a looking glass -
beautiful glints of good and evil
that grew in her secret garden
among succulent vines
and thick bristling thorns -
and whispered tricks of light and dark
in the soft cleft just behind her ear.
He insinuated himself
like an acrobat
in the fertile spot
between her thighs
with caresses so intimate
she wept,
and spilled his venom like seed.
And in that moment,
she felt her mouth break
and dark wings beat inside her bones.
She knew colors
and tasted secrets
that tore her tongue like nettles.
She felt the thick heat
of tears behind her eyes
and suddenly understood
the unspeakable silence
of falling.

Monday, March 12, 2012


The meadow beckons
fresh arrival of morning treasure
spilled out in a bright pastel haze
where moss green breathes with ochre
and pinks and lavenders
nod their lazy heads
and touch the wind with fragrant wings.
warmth steals through soil and roots
and winds up stems and trunks
bursting in new shoots
and gasps of color
that spatter the air
in a riot of fresh hope
newly wrapped and delivered
to the waiting world.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Serial Boy

You never were very bright
mama said
as she boxed his ears
and served him another helping of corn pudding.
The boy never said a word
just continued to smash peas
with a dirty fork,
watching the tines pierce their green skin,
and burying them
under a river of gravy
that ran down the greasy plate.
But his eyes never left mama's face
as his fork tapped the chipped formica
and he felt her sickly sweet smile
roll down his cheeks
into the gravy
caught under his lip

Thursday, March 8, 2012

I Love

I love how
you fit between my shoulders and thighs
and your mouth tastes like treason
when your dress hits the floor
and my hands run down
under the heat of your covers.
I love how
your skin unhitches under my touch
and you call me impudent
when your tongue catches mine
and my thumbs press
over the sharp thrust of your hips.
I love how
you christen the night with eloquence
and then slide down my skin
when I can't find the words
and my body aches
in the sweet pause of your free fall.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012


Lose yourself in me.
Be the unbidden thought
that follows me to bed.
and tosses my pillows
into dawn's lingering traces.

Be the gentle wager
I make with the night,
the ravage of stars
that follows me until
I can make peace with the dark.

Be the first tumble of dreams
that steals into my mind
and unravels me in eiderdown
while the day steals from my limbs.

And when morning breaks promise,
be the first touch of aurora
to brush against my skin.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

The Witching Hour

Th The lost hour of black magic
that trails the rough edge of midnight
when the moon seduces those
whose limbs dance and twitch
like fingers pricked on spindles,
and sleek, supple demons
polish apples and spread their wings,
perching on flecks of amber
to tangle the dreams of lovers.
Desire tightens in a catch of silk,
rippling over the bed clothes -
capturing your cries and whispers.
Buttons open like ragged wounds,
spilling soft pleas of want;
and the sweet torture of skin
pressing skin becomes a music
that leaves you unnerved.
You taste shadows in your mouth
and the bright smoke of memory,
as dark coils like a braid of jet
to blot out the stars and candles -
holding you a willing captive
deep inside the witching hour.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012


Let me kiss those lips
so good at stirring up dissent
among the rabble
and keeping dull clerics
on their toes
with nimble questions
that try my patience
and drive strong men to drink,
like how many angels can sit on a pin head
or how do you shove a fat guy
through the eye of a needle?

Turn my water into wine
and stun the crowd
with your miracle of choice.
Maybe the Lazarus trick
where you cheat death
and then appear on a grilled cheese sandwich
to housewives in Hoboken -
one last shell game
from the carpenter who would be king
and start a revolution.
You see, I have a plane to catch
(30 pieces of silver won't get ya far these days)
A one way ticket to the promised land;
but before I go, I need to know
Are we good?

Monday, February 27, 2012


Sunday, February 26, 2012


The boy took out a silver hook
and fastened it to a cobweb
and cast it across the summer night,
hoping for a prize
that he could tuck into his pocket
and put under his pillow
to dream upon.
He wanted to hear ghost stories
and taste wild strawberries
and swim in water so cold and clea
r it would dapple his skin blue and make him shiver.
He wanted to catch starfish
and dig for stone crabs under the pier
and eat snow cones until he burst,
painting the night cherry red
with firecrackers.
He wanted to know the colors of an August moon
and touch the sharp edges of stars
and just for one night
to own the sky...

Saturday, February 25, 2012


I want us to ride a tiger,
fur sleek with sandalwood,
out through the bamboo forests
under paper lanterns
and firecrackers that snap the night.
We will ride him bareback
through market stalls of blue tile,
on magic carpets of indigo
and let hennaed fingers
run through our hair
and taste saffron on the summer breeze
that blooms like red orchids.
We will hunt for jade eggs and silver combs
along the silk road
and let our feet find their way to Kathmandu
where we can hear the shimmer of brass bells
and feel the shiver of glass beads
sparkling the dark and our skin,
exploding the night in warm honey.

I want us to steer a sloop
sails unfurled like music
into the green flash of Islamorada
and search for flying fish
among the coral fans and spiny urchins.
We will sleep upon warm sand
through the deep velvet of night
under Casuarina trees
and let steel drum music
lull us to sleep
and taste the rich fire of cane rum
that comes in tin cups.
We will get our cards read and fortunes told
under a palm tree
and let our souls carry us to Curacao
where we can smell Frangipani and summer
and count stars like milk glass marbles
shimmering the sea and our hearts,
blanketing us in wanderlust.

Friday, February 24, 2012


Winter came late that year,
catching lazy autumn off guard,
burnishing the late harvest grapes
into the mellow stain of Brandywine
and breathing soft frost
into the dreams of sleeping children.
It rolled pewter across the sky,
chased the moon with chilly fingers
and cast long shadows across the ponds,
lashings of stripped birch branches
rattling windows at midnight,
and slipping through casement cracks
where it hid in silver fog.

It swept leaves from silo lofts;
muddled tobacco and blackberries,
and spangled cobwebbed corners
like stars strung on a bracelet.
It glistened and twinkled
and made the children dream of flying,
feet skimming weightless on silver
like slivered wings of snow owls.
It made old men think of laughing,
and set mothers to baking apples
and unpacking wool coats from trunks
hidden behind the attic eaves
where moonlight practiced magic.

It crept into bowls of snow pudding
and tucked itself under sleds,
piling in drifts against windows.
It stretched across bridges
and nestled over the fields,
trapping wood smoke under grayling skies,
blanketing winter's white burr
with promises of January.