Glory

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

pause,

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

shoulder,

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

mine.”

Obsession

The word

Yay

sconced by

a period—a

block that every

writer must climb

over.

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

verb.

Personal Coup

To be

famous, like

nothing—become

the man without

computer or

mailbox.

Walk back into

caves, save

your voice

for rocks, hide

your ears.

Bones the

proof of your

life, the marrow

blank microchips.

Affection

Someday, I

will walk around and

see discarded

webpages on the

ground.

Comments half

crumpled from a

hand that only

half cared.

A smiley

face held too

long, it was

too scared.

Liking

things, not

people.

Yoke

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.

Alone

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.

Dream

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

consciousness-platform—

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.”

Cannibalizm

Take a ham-

mer to the cable

pacemaker because

the picture

refuses to work

at our convenience—

laptop to the

tech Asclepius and

our orbits are

rE-stabilized.

A sweet-tart,

women imbibe the

scene of boy

and girl meet and

fall in love—emotions

are a reverse

egg: aren’t we

a Tybalt of our

own making?

The Bill of

Rights our

Denmark, if we

could only retreat

into the nutshell.

Consumerism

There are two

of you at a

table, one sipping

wine and the other

drinking a Coke,

somehow I have

to please you both.

I bring out

the appetizer, a

short piece, words

boiled for a

handful of minutes,

seeing each person

crack the oval

structure with a

smile, I breathe

easier too.

For the entrée,

I am scared—

I’ve been slow

cooking the meat

of my idea, my

message for hours—

but the words fall

off the bone, mother’s

pride.

This feast I

place before the

caviar-muncher and

the burger-wolfer,

the man in casual

dress grins with

satisfaction, but the

man in a tie leaves

me with a curt ‘thank

you’—paying his bill—and

is gone.

Wounded, I take

the critic’s place and

stare at my creation, wondering

what I did wrong, but

the man in flip flops

taps my hand, and

asks for dessert.

Virginia Storm

Clouds are tectonic

plates, shifting when

solid air becomes its

own enemy.

The earthquake

s h a t t e r s oxygen

skyscrapers, the

cities of birds are

torn apart as lightning

re-fuses molecules to

beat the Hyde out of duality.

No one cries

at the sound of

thunder, white

children kicked from

the sky, reverse

genocide.

San Francisco

sky in Virginia

cumulus

Proud

“I am

proud

of you.”

The sonogram

or an

HD screen.

Kisses on my

skin, but not my

heart.

Pluto

lifting the

ozone.

On Washing Long-sitting Dishes

Jasmine tea

choking in a

covered travel

mug I used

last week.

Spoons and forks that

know the inside of my

mouth almost

better than my

tongue.

Bowls that save

me from the

needles of a merciless

stomach.

Plastic arms,

tin toes,

what callouses

remember me?

Human Soup

Give me

advice—the gravy

boat floating down the

table—pause.

Wonder at your

old self, Van Gogh

before he was

Van Gogh.

Examine my sight,

Listen to my words,

Check my plate.

With what

love is your special

seasoning spiced?

Who, then,

will wash

my dishes?

Revenge

Someday,

I would like to write a note

To all my friends, family, and acquaintances

On the back page of the first book of poems

I publish.

“To all those

Who say they love me,

But are reading my heart’s

Outpouring for the first time:

You never knew me,

And it is your loss

Not mine.”

Returning from a Long Digital Absence...

I have not written on this blog in about three months, which speaks well to my tendency to start, forget, and then pick up things (if you could only see the collection half-finished journals in my bookshelves). But, I have not stopped writing poetry, so let the numerous blog posts begin!

Thanks to Rachel Harris for giving me a good 'ol push.