she jumped

she was hiding. Furtive and bare-skinned.

Deep in the dark

when the thunder came.

she cowered. Burrowed into shapeless corners.

Humming off key beneath her breath

as cymbals crashed.

A shock of fire burst against her skin

she ran.

As the dark exploded

she ran.

Through fiery hands reaching and vulgar tongues of flame

she ran.

Lungs burning. Heart bursting.

she ran

and ran.

Blinding light rent the shadows.

she saw the cliff’s edge.

she jumped

knees to chin.

she tumbled. Pell-mell and silent

Through layers of smoke and ash

till the chaos gave way.

she uncurled. In the comforting roar

Somehow relieved

she gave herself over to the wind

She watched. the roiling blackness shrink

In the distance.

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The Object

The object
blank, waiting
an inanimatency
alive in its constancy
A sorrowful joy
Little birth
bloody and raw and loud
Little death
somber and clean and,
quite suddenly, quiet
sparkling with disuse
cluttered with frustration
A kaleidoscopic soul
turning ever inward
spiraling out
in sublime exposure

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Time Less

this timeless ticking
filling corners
a barren shallow gulf
colors flowing
tidal moon
full and rising
the pulsing emptiness
easing stealthily
round boundaries erected
into an abyss
memory and shadow
white room
a facsimile
wilting flowers
browned teardrops
in the timeless ticking
filling corners
the qualities of silence
strange fingers on the flames

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in the end

And there was

in the end

a shallowness


in the house

that was a home


there was

in the end

an emptying


defaulted, burned

a waste


there was

in the end

a fragility

a sheerness

of skin

of aged paper


there was

in the end

an absence

a bitterness




in the house

that was a home

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The Storm

The line of light breaks

‘tween the banks of burdened blue.

The break widens

as the tide of prescience


Fibrous and cottony.

Strident singing, screeching, ringing through

the feathered ocean’s greens.

Heat ripens.


bright red globules


Decadent and vulgar.

The sickeningly sweet heat gives way

to a weighted stillness.

The twilight tints the air

a fired fuchsia.

There is a coolness wrapped ‘round

each breath of air.

And the trees seem somehow


pagan things in bas-relief.

An angry mob of blackened clouds

rushes roiling pell mell,

gobbling up

the bruised sky,

throwing jagged, glowing spears of crackling




The sky is ripped apart,

slammed down in fury.


The spear tears the earth apart.

Sheets of liquid steel


Petaled flowers beaten


Trees scream and twist in







A roaring, reckoning implosion

so LOUD!

the world vibrates on its axis.


substantive and primeval,

brutally crashing down










abrupt, a quickening.

We stumble through the wreckage,





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‘Twas an imperfect rose

That decided to bloom

In spite of the gloom

And shadow of the garden

She grew in.


‘Twas not the grace of the sun

Nor the gardener’s hand

That decided the sturdy blossom

But refusal to break

For fragility’s sake

In the budding spring of her youth.


‘Twas an imperfect rose

That unfolded, ignored

On a bare and thorny limb

Twas not envy she felt

Toward her lovely kin

Crowded in the sun’s sweet rays

But sigh did she

For the gardener’s sigh

And the pleasure of his gaze.


‘Twas an imperfect rose

Whose petals fell as years

A bruised silken beauty

Shedding wistful tears

For in the autumn of her age

She’d found no need for the gardener’s gaze.


‘Twas an imperfect rose

That ceased to bloom

In the shadow and gloom

Of the garden she’d lived in

Yet it was in the sun’s rays

That she died that day

And in the dying became perfection.

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The Balloon

Utter darkness descends
a contagion of screams
quick touch
lighter clicks
toes stubbed

“Where’s the flashlight?”
says the man
“Where’s the phone?”
says the woman
“What happened to my game?”
wails the child

Flashlight bobs
a stream of muted cursing
candles flare
buzz, beep beep
the phone connects

“A balloon hit the substation.”
says the woman
“A balloon.”
says the man
“Will my game come back on?”
wails the child

Utter silence descends
a contagion of sighs
fingers drum
chair scrapes
toes tap

“Might as well go to bed.”
says the man
“She’s not gonna sleep.”
says the woman
“What did you do in the old days?”
asks the child

And off they ran
in the bloated heat
out into the near night
and under forgotten stars
they danced with their shadows
in a field flush with moonlight
and fireflies

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