Posts filed under ‘voices’


 various anagrams


a rusted plow
half-buried in sand;


i saw you
paused in your flight
before your fall,


i have not yet forgotten
her touch, subtle
as desire.


clasp slipped, hand cold:
the touch of truth.


flight encircled, ended,
at return–
That word
cannot be said.

December 24, 2018 at 4:23 pm Leave a comment


meanings (II)

meanings. this land
is drenched with meanings.
but the dead
are merely dead.

December 20, 2018 at 4:20 pm Leave a comment

for missy

for missy

at the shore once
i watched your hair fly
in the surf’s windy spray

i had not touched you
all that day: was it
anger or a game? (honestly, i can’t

we had been becalmed
by strange coilings of mist
that seemed to echo
inner, unspoken fancies

(a rat ran through the surf:
you didn’t shriek, but merely
looked, and wouldn’t let me
kill it)

…it was our last day, alone
in the fog’s-sphere of sight…

the next day you disappeared.
if you were ever there, that is:

perhaps, conceivably, you
were only a fantasy, born
of the wind, the fog, the spray.

December 7, 2018 at 5:44 pm 1 comment



have you seen those
hand’s-span mountains?–and
have you climbed them?

December 6, 2018 at 8:47 pm Leave a comment

for S. Delany

for S. Delany

tormented and wounded
in her words’ tearing lurch, he

be-sandalled and be-spectacled
had wandered the tired
the metalled street

and tasted the stale fog/perhaps-smog
of three o’clock of a weekday
three o’clock in a greyed City morning

considering various
heroes, villains, and other fools,

run from the worded woman
who skewers him at times
with her merest glance

but has birthed these various
worlds, these unlikely
(and moving) protagonists; when

i stiffen in my last breath,
i shall see Kid Death

November 14, 2018 at 3:32 pm Leave a comment



that quiet
desperation fills you, for
a moment
as you listen to his story (the old
drunk’s story)…
you realize
he is as you, save
for face, name, a few

but he is old, and you
are horny, and
a whore on the corner
beckons. If not
love, lust, and the quick’ning
of the blood
(you can understand the ones
who regard
sex as exercise, though knowing
them blind)
that bespells you…

so you leave him, you
stagger away.
It is odd that
all that of meaning
in that day’s passing
is his story, and
(his incongruous, his beguiling)
his smile.


The line between truth and fiction is quite narrow (if existent) at times.

November 14, 2018 at 3:30 pm Leave a comment



i have addressed you
too often, unable
to not recall, scribbling

line upon line to
page upon page, knowing
they couldn’t be sent:

we parted some years
and miles away. you’ve
wintered, i suppose (i
don’t really know, haven’t

asked or cared to know)
with that same lover
successfully. But really,
it hardly matters:

though now and again
i must pen lines in your
name, to be discarded
or perched in some

dusty file: one grows
or one dies slowly. and
i have grown to know

all the shadows of
my self in the reflection
of the image i knew as you.


Yet another example of how I’ve openly hated myself since Vietnam.  And, it seems, every time I’ve ever ‘opened up’ [okay, so there are things that would ‘just have to be repeated’ and which you don’t say, aside from the fact there’s only one possible source and which galls like flesh worn raw in the summer and then burning from the sweat]–every time I have talked more than usual, there’s been immediate reason to regret it.


I don’t remember what her name was.  Perhaps it was [name redacted; she’s a devout Christian Reformed [Calvinist] matron who was merely a convenient excuse.  I found other people progressively more boring since second year of kindergarten except ones who were mainly non-academic.  It looks now like I should just have had more patience or even went to the wrong school.  But then I had the bad taste to acquire PTSD as well.

November 11, 2018 at 5:25 pm Leave a comment

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