when you find some one dead
there is a nexus between your mind
thinking, knowing they are alive,
then realizing they are firmly deceased,
there could be no denying it.

that cross-over, that switch
is ferocious in its speed,
but heavier than block lead,
it is a bewilderment.



in the context of a sex dream
there was no sex
but notes, accents,
nuances of a closeness extinct
save for some pinning specter
under the comforter
with me.

lucky there’s no dream smell,
to intercept reason,
exsanguinate the strength
toiled & collected
bricked up to guard,
to forget,
to help

She Holds Water Knowledge

Growing near beaches;
hardy, off the moister
side of a wisp-ing dune,
chased by wind and peppered
with calcium & quartz.

I’d like to think so anyway,
in the purest sense of
personification, trust.



There was two
tawny coppers,
peering behind her boughs
draped on sun-speckled
throat & shoulders.

Breasts, provident bronze
stilled like tacit fruit,
a vernal frame.

Her scentless scent,
poison in mute resonance,
poised in the graceful thought of night.

The moment prior to the bloom.
Earth & partisan parts
captured in muted symphony,
sending themselves about her;
their angelic center.

A sudden flit,
as cautious deer spooked
jet for the woods.
Green spotlight reflections
glint white & vaporize
behind each lash.

Burning auric fingers
briskly exchange
touch to incinerating chill.

With all the blood
in my body rushed,
fantastic plumes
from bell of the brain
through veins un-rung,
slowly purchasing frequency,
taking heavy sound to silence.


*   *   *


…was  masochism,
modest, delicate.
processed aesthetic
through the rose coloured glasses
and as my brain produced endorphins
was kissed with thoughts virgin to creation.

These blessed tortures
floated down like manna,
sopping honeycomb,
bee-less, fatted amber
in dying sunlight.

Her reflections red,
spark-rutty hazel
off the dusk through her trees,
stole brief moments in our cipher,
present & gone between us 
in wisps of smoke.

Pour La Dame de Mouches sur le Event Horizon:


“Que le ciel sombre nuit sans étoiles mitrailler
vos yeux rougeoyants de chambre.
Comme en remuant maelström cosmique
ceux perles de sable va briller.

Autoriser les yeux d’ébène flagrantes, de la grâce
confinés si sombre et si sage,
leer capturé incandescence;
cet univers meurt aujourd’hui.”

Ses sécrète regard d’ornement,
remplissages noirci océans comme elle pleure,
et congelés, une sorte retraites cardiaques
trop froid, trop noir pour nourrir les mouches.

To The Lady of Flies on the Event Horizon:

“Let starless dark night skies strafe
your glowing chambered eyes.
As stirring maelstrom cosmos
those sable pearls will shine.

Grant ebon glaring eyes, grace
confined so dark and wise,
leer captured incandescence;
this universe now dies.”

Her ornamental gaze secretes,
fills blackened oceans as it weeps,
and frozen so, a heart retreats
too cold, too black to nourish flies.


Timid & I know this, because she disappears
during conversations.
I’m sure she’s got a make on me too.
Both of us are talking about a lot of things to one another…

So the metaphor is, the metaphor we discussed
the last time we talked:

A bow hunter does not always approach.
Feeling out deer they –sit quietly in the blind,

— mask their scent,
–they are still; every sound in the woods.

It’s learning that that’s the trophy in metaphor.
You gain a little spirit.
Some one that helps you & that makes you proud of them.
Then you are proud of yourself, and
then it’s gone.

Orientation is difficult, and not free, when you meet someone.
So, it is important to nurture connections.
In oceanic wilderness, they are parts of the island chain.

Human connections are real to who ever is smart enough
to admit to them, own them, or understand them.

That is a different comparison.

And that is simple:
the people we meet, even for a short time.
Those we connect with, bond with, and bind to.
They leave but they never go.
They are like reading a story.

All this gives us courage.
All this gives us courage.