Here I Come!

If you’d like an invite to my private blog to review the novel I am working on, PM me at

Matter and Motion

Matter and Motion (or: He once asked why I loved him…)

love is not chemistry; the truth is immaterial
but these words matter
as this heart’s atom is split

a simple center in motion, a nuclei thunderstruck
apple, adam, and eve
the kite’s flight faster than light

velocity of present, dimensional
co-variables dependent on an independent brilliance
the separation of two points merely measured by
the frequency of linking currents, charged

love is an attempt, an ordered chaos, plotted then annihilated
pairs of chosen and systematic values
graphed and visualized, theoretically
a stable reaction, kinetic
predicted only by the incalculable outcome

love is a horizontal axis
an energy roaming
a motion proportional to the squared speed
the unit of the meter, the weight of the joule
measuring the shock, jolt, volt
the aggregate verve, the object velocity
the abject haste, the vector of which the speed itself defines

the rate of position change
when you place your body
in the conduit of my direct line

and all that binds is
my energy, your mass


this was written years ago for a lover and needs resurrection today

Love Poem #3

Love Poem #3

I’m a little drunk
And my ears are ringing
I think I am getting old

Because the boyish, audacious rapper
In the rock band tonight
With all his grave and somber verse
Merely made me want to giggle

This life and all
Its cumbrous meaning
Weighs so heavy on the young
As if we are born, so small
Laden with this burden
And with every year
Heaved onto our many days
We remove one more
Brick from the scale
Until the moment when
At the end
Our lives are just
The one soft veil
The silken kerchief
Removed from our eyes

I’m still a little drunk
And my eyes are heavy toward sleep
I know I am older
As this 1am curfew is worse
Than an entire week of my college all-nighters

I know I am older
And this getting older business
Isn’t ceasing any time soon
So the only thing
I’d like to hasten
Is knowing that I
Will be getting older
With you

Target Practice

Target Practice

Any dumb shit
novice Cupid in Training
would hit me

I am a weeping woman
wearing bell sleeves

dangling velvets
to her feet
with a bleeding heart sewn
on every centimeter

or so of softness
just one more organ
of many to break

Any dumb shit newly born
Cupid in target practice would
fell me





this feeling just needs a repost tonight as i work on other works that are just too frustrating to post right now…

Originally posted on succumbing:


I’ve been grinding my teeth
Compressed for a month or more
I wake each morning with a night
mare pounding her hooves
in the gates of my jaw
As I rise, massage this soreness,
dreading the calcium powder that might
spill forth the bone words
secured behind this grit
and grind

wondering what
diamonds shall be spit
from the crevice of these
tectonic molars

As one continent splits and sinks
So an island rises

I fancy myself a Goddess
And attempt to swallow this world
Once more
Soil and dirt
And cloven clench

The belly grumbles
The reflex revolts
The constant press


….this was written several months ago when an idea was struggling to be birthed….

View original

A True Yarn

A true yarn, Spun

Twenty years
this twine lay curled
in a basement, shelved
and purled upon itself
taut in its own spiral

You have chosen this yarn
as your warp; the new rug string on your loom

What is the fiber of its being? I ask
Woolen and jute, you say
a slight oily lanolin
fleecing the fibrous core

So old, the core forcing
its way out; spinous, hairy and rough

A tough and determined twist
The ringlet memory of this twine
is stronger
than your ability to straighten it

So, I will help you

I, on one side of your loom, you on the other
A gentle tug meets my fingers thrust; strings, separating, care
A small whisper of muscle to twine, skin to fiber

A request, uncurling
urging and praising, as you
thread each strand, as you
center the bar against the frame, as you
set the comb against the bar

Do not waste your efforts, I say
Untwist only a little at a time

See here, you can unravel
and loosen and unknot, but until it is
pulled through

to the other side, the twine
still holds tight to the curl
Yearns for the safety of skein

In the sun of the workroom
In the afternoon of winter

Your fingers follow
the twining twist and meet
mine, across the heddles

Spanning the loom
Securing the new pattern;
the weft in the heart of the rug

what you really meant

what you really meant (aka, something had to be done about that)

you said you hadn’t meant
to kiss me
at least not my lips
you’d meant
to kiss
just my cheek

you said you hadn’t meant it
at least not these soft lips on lips
at least not this warm tongue on tongue
with heated emerging
and splitting open
and warm enfolding

you said
you’d meant
to kiss
just my cheek

i had driven us back to your car
the eve of our second date
and as a simple farewell
for now
you leaned in to place
your shaven chin and soft lips
all pristine and innocence
just my cheek
as you said
you’d meant it

so i turned
my cheek away
and faced my mouth
full on your mouth
all depth and gravity
to show you
exactly what
i’d hoped
you’d really meant



at her highest
point. skimmed
the black
sky. broomed
the sweeping
midnight. dusted
the starspecks
i am mad for the moon

This is it

This is it (first poem for you)

This is it my love

I endeavor
to keep one
light finger
over the center
of your chest
one small touch above
the place
where your heart beats

Not a closed fist
and not even an open palm
Nothing that will grasp or clasp
Not fasten, not affix
Nothing that can cling
Nor abandon

One light finger on your chest
that simply points to the place
I’d like to live
in you

As long as I
preserve this lightness
where it is merely
our choice
that offers
our daily meeting

when you place
one light finger
on the bone between my breasts
here in
my center where
you now live

The Bed

The Bed

We broke the last one I owned.

When I told Susan, her eyes cartoon-popped. She had already downed two beers, and I expected her to merely guffaw and pat me on the back as a football team-mate sharing an excellent play. Instead she froze, like the stunt man who landed a bit wrong at the end of the motorcycle leap, never to move again.

I thought I should help my lesbian friend recover from the shock of how wicked hetero sex could be to split a wooden bed. So I explained how it was merely an ancient futon frame ready to give way anyway; the man weighed over 200 pounds.  Really, a stiff wind, as well any energetic rooster, could have knocked it over the next Tuesday.

We broke it. The last one I owned.

When it broke, the first thing you said, even before you climbed back on the tilting mattress with me was “Darling, I will build you a new one”. And then we constructed our mountainous heat once again. Tumbled to the carpet with the cushioned ridges cradling my head and your hands scooping my valleys.

I thought I would never ask for such a thing; to build me a bed. But you took pleasure, you said, in how sanding the wood reminded you of my skin; our skin. And as you constructed the frame, I took pleasure in the sweat on your lip as I watched you drill the long golden screws through each tight well.

The last one I owned. It broke.

When you left, I wanted to create a pyre with the well-sanded wood and bond you to the flaming bedpost (a witchy brand of S&M). Or snatch a vigorous new love with whom to split this frame you built.  I expected to think of you daily and to bed nightly tortured thoughts into a salty handkerchief. Wet in manifold neglected areas; eyes and thighs.

I thought I would always ache for the empty frame, without you. Today I see the nude wood, as I undress the mattress, loose the screws, pull apart the steady boards and prepare it to be moved to my new home. Pausing, I see that all the men helping me with this house and bed transition–a good half-dozen Olympian helpers–are men whom I have loved, still love, or who wish to love me soon. And I know the cushioned dips and valleys, the shining rivets, the sanded skin, and the sweet white sheets will know a deeply filled basin again soon.

The last bed is broken.  This bed is whole.


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 619 other followers