See “Coupling” published in Seltzer, Baltimore’s e-magazine for the arts…and see me periodically at the local open mics

The End of Euphememory

stuffed like dolls
like taxidermied heads
like blackmailers’ file drawers
with fascial paper crinkled
with jugular ink
a rubbermaid bin
of journals
like an impatient bomb
to obliterate
airy cottonwool
to reveal
bare splintered ends
of forgotten truth


Thanks Giving

A bow to you, my friends
of fur and feathers
you bearers of witness to sentience
in the four-legged
and creepy-crawling beings,
the wielders
of forks not knives,
you advocates of kindness
and walking lightly
on the earth:
a bow to you.

And I bow also
to the great green nation
that gives away unheard –
toppled in forests
or in swathes in the fields

If trees also speak to their huggers
and scream silently when dismembered –
if herbs whisper healing secrets
and leaves of grass inspire poets –

if nascent ecosystems
rooted in dead green-brown
of death and excrement
dancing with microbes,
summon soil-amending weeds
and fertilizing furred and winged ones
to turn once-arid wastes
lush and alive –

if bodhisattva beings
turn full-front to greet
a shaman-hunter’s
(the hunter’s body
later feeding
of shining claws and teeth,
or creeping things
and rootlets
burrowing deep
among the bones) –


Then is the mystery-miracle
not Life
given up and given –
an encompassing dance
of giveaway –
not dominance or superiority
not toolmaking or speech
not mobility or stasis –
but morphic wisdom
ecosystem consciousness
and carbon-based compassion?


On this feast of thanks giving
better to acknowledge
the lives that sustain our own
(oxygen- or carbon-breathing)
better to see them
name them
honor them
better to hold sacred
the givers
and the Gift



Where have the words gone –
morphic hammers
consensual reality
over perception –
assigning meme, not meaning
to pure phenomenon

I sit in woodland
meditation silent
sucked – whoosh –
into a febrile vortex
Tumbled and mashed
in a transmuting maelstrom
of shamanic vision
ancestral mythos
childhood catechism
(cosmic vision/
creational dialogue
out false dogma
in true heresy)
Subconsciously squishing
isolate microcosm
through an imaginal wormhole

Words have no place here
slippery acculturated
prisons of meaning
Crush them to Essence
surrender to formlessness
Dance with the nameless
dust of exploded stars
whirling to coalesce
into (inter)Being



if the news were a movie
and i a child watching
i’d be asking mommy
can we go home now? i don’t want
to watch any more
…but it’s not…

i go outside, feed
the feral cats
wonder how much cesium
they are absorbing
in the soft spring rain
how much are
on the planet
in radiating circles
from melting-down
half a world away
across oceans that no longer
divide us
sweet Gaia’s waters
by runaway radiation
coal slurry…)
detritus of our drive
for power

and every human being
who flicks a light switch
turns on a computer
watches a tv
runs an appliance

turns up a thermostat
drives a car
is complicit
we are the ones who
three mile island…
(not to mention
deepwater horizon…
kingston fossil…
how many others)
where else
will Mama Gaia’s
to our raping
destroy us
our own lethal tools
while wind turbines
continue to spin
the devastated landscape


i don’t want to watch this movie
cannot not realize i am –
each of us is –
a scriptwriter
cannot not admit
that the most i have done
is not enough
the most i attempt
may be too late
cannot not see
that my smallest choice
to determine
the end


(choose life.
choose life.)


Fox Medicine

sister fox fleeing through forestland
(it’s All so vast over-
whelming roots branches sweeping
ground touching sky)
preying upon/preyed upon small thing
furbearing pheromone bearing
bundle of fourfooted money on the move

never knowing profit
is more important than Truth
more important than Freedom
more important than running Wild
touching Sacred Earth Sacred Water Sacred
Wood Grass Herbs Stone Spirit
more important than Life
(nothing personal –
you’re not a real Life real Being –
just a resource
no purpose in life but ours
you can serve that purpose and die
or die)

if my World is their hunt-
ing ground, my flesh their asset
my habits their study for entrapping

(no soul they recognize in sisterbrother
how dare i do my job, play
my role serve the All with
my instincts my Being
my redbrownblackwhite Earthmates (all prey
like me)
how dare we emerge from
cover much less openly be our Truth


Ancestors speak: shapeshift
pass on many paths dodging
between dimensions
immerse in one river of Spirit
put hunters off the scent with
deep feminine Mama magic invoking Mystery in
language they do not know
distracting deflecting working
the limits of their logic
affirming allying with essential
Earthpower holding
the Center grounding



“…whether it is husband and wife coupling in their love and birthing a child; whether it is a widow coupling with the memory of a deceased husband; all love is born of the conflict that dialectical consciousness acknowledges.”
–Matthew Fox, Original Blessingvoid

It wasn’t supposed to happen
like that.

You’d flame out like the Challenger
disintegrating in mid-leap skyward –
not crumble and wither and fail
fighting inch by inch
month by month
even unconscious
for your life.

I’d carry on a bright and burning torch
of conviction, empowerment, challenge,
not sink into isolation, confusion, paralysis
not fall silent and lost
as a child abandoned in a crowd
as a monocle without a lens
as a moon without a sun.

It wasn’t supposed to happen
that way.

Emptying your office
I disgorged our memory chests
saw you transforming from image-maker to visionary;
saw me burying my being in your mission,
issues, projects, goals and views…
quashing Quixote under a corporate cloak,
daggerless and drowning in pages
of proprietary jargon for a paycheck.
My body paid the price; free-
lancing, I recovered.
One year later, you started the journey
that would strip you like Inanna
traveling drumless into darkness.

“His work was too big for his body,” the shaman said. “For him
to continue his mission, he needed to transition to spirit.” All I knew
was – you were gone. It wasn’t
supposed to happen like that.

Years, numb years,
before traveling four paths of heretical hope dispelled
the fog, awoke my being; gave glimpses of
life, my purpose, salvaged like generations’ mosaic
of shattered pottery, like grandmothers’ scraps for a patchwork
quilt, held tenuously together by morphic field,
waiting to be stitched into wholeness.

Today the Day of the Dead approaches,
I greet it just shy of half-centennial (you expected
to die at 50; the five years following, you said, were gift). For
the first time I am sensing your presence, doubling
in tears at your passing touch…
I see the seed of larger legacy you carried,
a remembered image linking centuries, ceremonies, cultures,
visions, dances, traditions, Teachers and dreams to in-
form a half-glimpsed possibility for me: what if…?

The question glitters tonight like Challenger sparks,
like Danae’s golden rain midway between earth and sky.


A Cappella

Towering foursquare blocks of lectures and
learning climb against the night
sky echoing a year’s last songs of laughter,
youth swaying in grass skirts, leis,
paper bras strung on rippled chests,
four years fresh and launching outward, free
and coupled and future-bound.

I walk this dark and stairstepped hill alone tonight
as four years of ghosts surge round me:
children climbing from our arms into lives
and work they choose,
parents climbing to empty nests and lives to fill,
grandparents climbing slowly,
turning to bless before their final step.

You did not climb this hill,
did not join the crowds of parents
and children on first and last journeys.
Our son began his climb as you journeyed supine,
your spirit walking with me.
I knew then:
this would be four years’ solitary climb.
You rose long enough to deposit him
with his fellows, then sank
and did not rise again.

Tonight is the last climb for me.
I turn and gaze at the lighted hall
where you did not hear your engineer son sing,
did not see his classmates cheer
and pound his back, did not see him
and his girlfriend snuggle beside me
between sets, did not see him
mobbed by friends and fans after the show.
Did not see him…
in the body at least.

I square shoulders, set foot on stairs,
walk each step slowly to the lot where
the night sky meets me like a cloak.
Stars piercing the clouds now,
the new moon hiding her face.
I turn my face to the sky, reaching for you,
your inner voice, your chill touch to warm
my heart, your nod. “We’ve done
our job,” I whisper. A breeze ruffles my hair,
falls silent.


Dark Silence

dark silence
desires no words
strikes the hand weak
mouth dumb
that frame them

dark silence like smoke
flees the hands
grasping for it
blurs the eyes
clouds the mind
straining to pierce it

dark silence alone
consumes itself
in unending withdrawal
unending fear
of the silent dawning

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