Sunday, July 24, 2011


I wish I
could go to
Delphi, slide my
head past the front
door’s column to
see if the place
was still

in service, but
instead of priestesses
I would find
publicists discussing
the books he’s
sold and

his next paid
appearance, legal
tender replacing
libation, heaped in
silver bowls, “Ah

a true fan” Apollo
would say when
my jeans and
v-neck made their
way through the

tunnel of Blackberries.
“Would you
like a signed
t-shirt or a
photo?” but
then he would

take the look
from my
eyes and hold
it in his
hand, “Best
go to Calliope

if that’s
what you want.”
A hephastean
bodyguard would
place his
hand on my

gliding me
to a quiet
room. The lady
would be middle-
aged, frames

on the walls with
Homer and
Virgil’s handwriting,
and though
many could step
to her unknown,

she would
know me. “I
am as helpful
to you as a
fortune cookie, my
dear. Do not

live my life, your
existence is
the opposite of

Saturday, July 23, 2011


The word
sconced by
a period—a
block that every
writer must climb

Throw the
conjunction to
the noun until
it becomes a he
or she.

Soon I
will forget the
voice of
double negative
and only hear
the hymn of

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Personal Coup

To be
famous, like
the man without
computer or

Walk back into
caves, save
your voice
for rocks, hide
your ears.

Bones the
proof of your
life, the marrow
blank microchips.

Monday, July 11, 2011


Someday, I
will walk around and
see discarded
webpages on the

Comments half
crumpled from a
hand that only
half cared.

A smiley
face held too
long, it was
too scared.

things, not

Sunday, July 3, 2011


It’s not the
climbing of
Everest, it is
the making of
Everest that stares
down at my
life to make it
a dot.

Does it matter
whether the stem
cell dreams of
becoming a
foot or a mouth?

Or will it
settle to be
a fingernail.


The tip
jar for my
thoughts has been
empty for years.

Which is worse?

The penny you
keep in your
hand out of
disappointment, or
the one that stays
in your pocket.


While I was
sleeping, you
plucked my brain
out of my head, rolled
it out like a carpet
from the Taj Mahal, and
pinned the uppermost
corners to a clothesline.

When the dog
licked my face, the
dancing thoughts of
my nap retreated
to the eves of the
normally they are
bodies waiting for
my order, but in
dream thought, a prism,
can let the white light
shine through it.

I know the smell
of you, sniffing you
out until I found
you barefoot in the
grass, staring at my
brain they way you’ve
done for years.

To me, the gray-pink
tissue all looked the
same, but to you
the bulky swirls and
curves were the
topography of all
I have ever been or done.

My cerebral organ
before you, you answered
the question that bubbled
up from the frontal mountain.

“My dear, there was mold
  all over the creases of
  your brain. That’s why
  you’ve been sleeping
  so much.”