Just one bite

It isn’t hidden in bold type
Curious fonts or muted prints
Suggestive eyes
Asking you to examine your soul.

Heigh-ho!  Doc cycles to work
Through the jungle and drama
Of DIY and organic palaces
A sugarless plot to hide upon time.

And where’s the magician?
The old romantic? The satirist?
The poet-singer still entreating?
I’m wishing.

I don’t know how to be seduced
or make the truth bite.
It just gently gnaws.


What does town do?
With its ashes dug well–
conscience-burning rot
Clocked its cutout tongues

Sucked off the years
And fluked into fate
With grit and shovel
Anthem’s flamed holler.

Don’t mouth concern, star.
You pushed them over
The edge of the drum
Into red and blue despair

Stoked your rafters lined
With acres of pink bluff-
So thick the snow won’t melt.
And see, dusk’s turned its last eye.

Virtuous Circles

Shape wet clay
Into cup,
Celibate, chaste,
Effective in its revelation,
Drop by drop by drop,

Effectual, efficient,
Faithful clay.
High-principled, honest,
In its clear, transparent glaze.

Incorruptible, inculpable,
Irreprehensible soft moral mud
My noble hands, on the level,
On the up and up,
Of your tender form.

Regular, right-minded,
Righteous, spotless, smooth,
Unsullied, untainted, clay.

Up front, upright,
Worthy, of earth and time,
Coin and milk.

How I forget myself
In these virtuous circles
Thrown and thrust.

Erosion of trust,
Kneaded and fed.

I will carry the cup
And beg.

Tonight we dig deep and dare
Bones and bits of resolution
To slide back down the slopes
Of this paradisaical evasion.

Ships pass through the blasted sound
Where voyeur, tenderly, lets two oceans kiss.
Whose lips are sealed with paper pound
Might steal the hungry serpent’s bliss.

King, president, and noble chief
Forge out your empty city’s spoil,
And tempt not reason, Eve, or thief,
Now your years arch over as on we toil.

Lying in State

With deathlike grimace
She teaches us apathy
Indifference reigns.

These are the leaders we’ll regret

These are the leaders who sneak
And crawl, who hide and recoil
From the light, who wear masks
And lie.  These are the leaders who gamble and steal and throw bombs to throw our gaze off course.  These are the leaders who inhabit another world, for whom this realm is only a means to their own end.

The wood is the quiet mass

The wolf steals out of the wood.
He smacks and licks his lips as only he could, contemplating his next meal.
But when grandma and the bloody child
Stagger out, he panics at this sudden exposure and he howls,
As they survey the contents of his

“I’ll blow your houses down,” he puffs.

“They’re all wolves like me,” he huffs.

Where is humanity?

The wood can’t see itself for all the trees.

On a good day…

Wellington, on a day like this,
Is child bright, glitter spilt views,
Obscene greens and solid true blues
Boldly outlined, ten out of ten,
With a fine black felt tip pen.

The wolf is an industrial complex.

I am a girl.  I wear a red coat.

I am simple.

I am a wolf.  I am naked.  

I am industrial.  I am complex.

I am an industrial complex lurking in the woods and I would eat myself, in a word, whole.

I am a noun and a static verb.

A catch.

I run wild and engender terror and fear.

I am oil.  I am a weapon.  I am waste.

I am feasting my eyes and I would swallow us both, whole.

I am wolf with teeth, claws, and paws.

I am a hopeless cause, dependent on you.

A lifelong sentence, this dreadful vigil, waiting for the woodcutter to tear me apart or

pull me out whole.

A Pact


I make a pact with you, loved one –
come sooner than a thought.
Slip through earth’s fine skin
With the metal you wrought.
Tender out the flesh, and cap the scabs
Til all our plastic-ridden seas run red.
Smooth our bodies with its petroleum,
So slick we’re floating with the dead,
Soft sludge, this, our chartered mausoleum.
We sign nothing but the bottom line.