Body’s Worth

Poetry

A passenger throws a red scarf

out the window of a car.

Body falls. Skins

the road, rolls into the razor grass.

Salty nest off nerves lies

summer scorched,

licking the surface slick

as verb. Slick as motion.

In this moment body’s worth

can be measured by the grace

of decomposition but

no one mistakes knucklebones

for relics.

Daytime full moon.

In this moment

the eclipse breathes.

In the next moment body’s worth

can be measured by the ripple of

stones snagged in the blood pool.

A previous version of this poem appeared in The Reverie October 2015. I’ve revised it a little 🙂

We Hold All of Our Hurts Together

Poetry

a handfull of darkness

serpent’s reach

the stars my destination

driving blind

heavy time

the new moon’s arms

adulthood rites

city of illusions

time out of joint

a graveyard for lunatics

i will fear no evil

words are my matter

midnight robber

conspirator

a maze of death

beyond this horizon

the godmakers

the crack in space

the cat who walks through walls

dreams must explain themselves

voices from the street

merchanter’s luck

eye in the sky

something wicked this way comes

sister mine

the green brain

the dragon in the sea

survivor

farewell summer

fledgling

double star

whipping star

lilith’s brood

stranger in a strange land

wave without a shore

A found poem made up of titles by Nano Hopkinson, Octavia E. Butler, C.J. Cherryh, Frank Herbert, Alfred Bester, Ursula K. LeGuin, Ray Bradbury, Robert A. Heinlein, and Phillip K. Dick

Sketch by Mr. J

The Patron Saint of Unaccountable Muses

Poetry

She was throttled and hung

when hope died

for the second time.

No one stayed around for her

resurrection, no one

watched her catch a crow mid

flight, stick two fingers down

its throat and pop her eyeball

out of its broken beak.

Last I heard she moved

into an alley off Capitol Street.

She feeds the stray cats slightly

green slices off her right

arm and passes out cigarettes

to the working girls.

The first serious poem I ever wrote

Poetry

When the sun peers into the sea

It doesn’t see itself at first

But when the reflection is clear

The sun is riding on the waves.

(So I wrote that in 5th grade and I’m still kinda proud of it even though reflections need light or whatever and scientifically it doesn’t make any sense BUT there’s this weird place where writing takes you where things don’t have to make sense to make you feel good.)

Ulysses the Cat

Lupercalia, Poetry

Stretched in the sunlight

crowning Calypso’s shore

the big cat dozed,

small blue crabs drown

in a capsized silver urn, cream

filled and slopping beside him.

Why long for plump

tuna steak and cheesecake

crumbs when Apollo

scratches behind your ears

and no storm clouds

threaten tender olive saplings

with shaking? That

rural, stone hearth

plucked from the heart

of the hill your paws pounded

daily is miles away.

Waves lick gingerly

against the pebbly shore

the lambent royal blue of

Penelope’s summer dress.

He is still listless as

he is lifted up by

roughened driftwood hands

and tossed back into the sea.