High School Reunion

Everyone gathers to hear the poets preen

on the source of inspiration:

how the athletes ran into

glass cases;

how the singer overcame

dead man’s notes;

how the clown croaked

on a moped’s swerving laughter;

how the skin of truth

peeled from our bones

as the noise of the streets

drowned our jail cell march.

Huddled over coffee and secrets

we agree only those without

stand alone.

That their haikus

lack the character

of conviction.

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Searching for anonymity

is dancing nude along desire’s paths

white moon to black sun.

A month in the whole enterprise

drifts like paper cutouts

mad men strung between the rafters

leaving sadists to admire

photographs of life

and naming them poetic

for the exposure

it never gave them

the memory of heat on bare feet

as he submerges.

Tick-Tock Say the Eyes

Tawny pain erupts behind

clock-round pools ticking down the mind

to happiness on leather fields,

for grace and fashion yields

the morbid taste of bovine trance

fit for costumes in the sequined dance;

and men will know and beasts will cry

that all that lives must also lie

beside the shifting brook

bleeding fragrant fights into the nook

hidden from heart, hidden from sight

waiting for the peacock light

by which a hammer quakes

and restoration trembles where conscience wakes.

Early Morning

Outlines in memory foam lie

with tales of

nothing in common, no

communal tacks of occupation

to bridge the gaps between

one’s hatred of bouncing balls

or his miscomprehension of a muse—

traveling flames set fire

to the stability of solitude’s sanctuary;

coast by coast

they’re split down the middle

of history rounded out by

earth and water

the beating blood of birth—

and for all that

it’s we, it’s we, it’s we and

“Your child, your decision”

that hangs a rope about them.

Bare Foot Education

(Miss the good news? Be sure to check out my previous post for details on an upcoming poetry reading, award, and radio interview – it’s a busy couple months ahead!)

Exploited feet

diminished spirit

ashen world detritus

clogging pores and pouring


out live within

sanctuary of knowledge

fortress by education, maze-like

without the cheese, just history and

ink dripping from the binding—


not a prayer

nor a thought,

it’s the brick and mortar keeps me

it’s the paper worlds that defend me

it’s the flesh and bone that births me


beyond, the living

not made, clandestine

nights of exhaustion for figments

and apparitions—yet

no imagination save “away”.


Familiar is the chirp

of the restoration aria

gentle minds contemplate

as they dream bare foot dreams.