What’s hidden inside air
as we speak without context?
Tone or light or sounds
words make when we
want to explode but it’s a soothing
being pressed into service
or when we want to say something
we know we shouldn’t.
‘Shouldn’t’ is the worst word.

Something fell, like conscience
in the shoals
and it wasn’t missed
or even defined
as anything other than a wisp of distraction.


Find where you belong
or move on,
he said,
but that implies
a space in time
with all the connections meaning something
and that’s the trouble
since I’m a stripped wire
with little to speak of
but for some unrealized beauty
and forgotten use.

Tripping down

The staircase,
a great yawning
ready to swallow us
as we blithely scamper on
to the next and the next
only sometimes
shadows changing shape
and air becoming thick
with our own sweet decay,
something for the next
explorers to step over.

Song of Scissors

Walking into the curvature of a spoon
with a head full
of wildflowering gypsy rhythms.
Noticing all that makes up the spine
of feathers and other wanderers.
Make the trip move like rain through sea,
tantalizingly becoming one
while staring straight into an open mouth-
devoured or spoken (same thing really).
When in the notes these drifts
become dunes, nothing is cut away
but layered until greys and blues
twirl over swimming hips.
Trapping only ideas.
Allowing the truth of continuing ruin
to become something new.