The Big Silence



I don’t like to listen
to the heart beating my lover
as he sleeps       or the tympanic drone
of the jet engine as my plane creeps
through a

levitated  on  silence

or the hum of life
as it burns calories
into fossil fuels,
fossil fuels
into calories or the buzz of a god-zillion
different smart phones and feet,
a regatta of combustion

There is a always a signature;
a pattern,
a cadence,
a sequence
to everything that has decadence
and is trying
to pass as life

And there is this infinite noise
within the body of the divine
out of which
musicians pull their infant notes

But, all I can see is the doom

that awaits…
that impending,
impalpable silence

that is my violence.

And it is where I am
the most.


Condemned, but not Damned – This poem appeared in the 21st issue of Pink Panther Magazine

Crunchy Anarchy

I wanted to cross the barrier
perched on fog’s slippery mount
as it rolled out
God’s floor

This made me a condemned woman

for having practiced my style of grace
as I walked out on a bed
of sharpened steeples

Praying with my tongue stuck out
Daring to taste
a drop of
Heaven’s forbidden rain

It is not like I didn’t try…
for I had practiced enlightenment
til my head swelled and herniated the sky

But my heart wandered in place
finding only veins

and now, I take my nourishment
in air and silence,
carry this burden, with pride,
of these God forsaken chains

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Lament of a Despondent Peach Tree with a nod to T.S. Eliot

I grow old… I grow old…
If that’s not poetry enough, what is?

And, I am running out of leaves and what remains trembles,
rattles at times, in the cooling Autumnal breeze
and the birds and the bees no longer trigger in me a ridiculous outburst of laughter, in fact what they perpetuate is beginning to seem a bit obscene.

Am I boring you yet?

Even my addictions are losing their sheen;
the sun, the water, those sly children who once desired my peaches.

I once heard them whisper on a summer day beneath the shade of my marquee.
Dare we… Dare we?
Do dare… Do dare! I hissed back, emphatically, with my leaves like lips shaping the mad thoughts into the air.

Do take the highest fruit from these silvering boughs
and take them far far far away from here.

But, oh no, no, no…they didn’t listen.
No way, No how!
after the taking of packaged sweets, and TV,
they just didn’t seem to give a damn anymore.

That Drunk at the bar is staring…

i want

though she doesn’t know me
and though I’ve
multiple times
To watch her
she still refuses to know me,

which seems a bit unfair,
since, i have granted
her so much
power over me

and though time
is money
i    can’t stop spending
It all on her.

She waits her tables
eager to please those other    men,
like children seeking an allowance
an extra touch,

nothing bad

can   happen to her

In the back
while she twirls her dirty blonde
hair up into a messy bun
(she thinks) nobody is watching

However, I am not a nobody
I have:
1.) a body,
2.) a yacht,
3..) a good job in finance,
4.) strong hands

What does she have?
A    pretty face, a tan?
That spoiled little         cunt!
needs a man like me

I’ll show her the value of man.


When I believe
what you believe, I see the world
as a leaf, not a tree,

but, that’s okay
because the aphids
see it the same

and the tree
sees the world as the forest

and the forest
doesn’t know what to think,
except that it is made up of countless trees,
hence its pantheist God Complex

and God, who is not actually trees,
but man-like
tries to looks down upon the world,
but can only see his overjoyed penis,
because it is so great,

shouts out, “Oh my God! I can make it move.”

A poem for the old man who came from a woman’s womb

I do not like the old man much
who preaches from the grave and such
who brings the news of wriggly worms
and damsels damned by written words.

I do not like his hidden ways
the way he always wants to haze
then raze the ones who don’t behave
to brings us all back to the cave.

I only wish that he’d shut up
its not nice for ghosts to interrupt
while we throw flowers on his tomb
and worry over our own damned wombs.

Natural Causes

After the last failed attempt,
I decided to tattoo her eulogy across my chest.

Better to be safe than wordless in front of a murder of mourners all bent on deciphering the meaning of “natural causes” at age 45.

I was never really good with a needle and small bits of viscera leaked from each letter.
When I finished, the heart was nearly drained to the size of a shriveled beet.
Then there was the scar tissue that grew over to construct the shiny pink tomb I now call home.

You say you want to reach out to me, but that will require a type of open heart surgery
and blood always makes you weak.

Whatever it will be next; razors, pills, or cigarettes, It doesn’t matter,
I have already located your place in the stars.

“Such cruel poems” she says “will surely bring on the death of me.”
“Whatever” there are much crueler things in life.


We see rain for its pain
prancing upon a corrugated tin roof.

poor rain. dancing against itself.
pathetic rain. Why must it worry its heart
thinking about all it mistook?

Everyday it survives a trillion drops,
Its countenance a trillion sparkling eyes
fracturing sunlight into a trillion faceted thoughts.

See how it shimmers for the sky,
magic and tragic in its starry flight;
The sky likes it that way,

but, it’s rough on the kind
that cannot fathom the rain’s failing
commitment to dying.

Everyday it survives a trillion drops.
Everyday a planet plummets through outer space.
Everyday its inhabitants look up (ostensibly with wonder)

and judge all the things they see as falling out of place.