(Originally published in Dead Snakes)
The lightening rips
A seam of sky
Slashing a gash
Wine dark manuscript.
And the stars are
The trillion eyes
Of an unseen god—
Each eye lit
Like a candle wick
To illuminate or ignite
Of our hearts:
Our weeping wax—
And sticky pitch—
All our combustible
Bits and parts
That come from
The same stuff of stars—
(Or so I’ve been told).
Formed in the furnace
Of a cosmic bonfire:
4.6 billion years old.
Here There Be Monsters
(Originally published in Think Journal)
…one cannot slay an absent dragon.
And so I slew myself. Not a suicide, but a surgery—
A crusade against the ravenous dragon of the heart.
Green & serpentine as envy; slithering like greed.
The serpent hoards the hurts it needs.
Coiled & constricting around the glistening rot
As the forked tongue flickers, hissing its forget-me-nots.
The harrowing of hell begins at home.
Alone with our home-grown hazards:
The hand upon the hilt—the sword oiled within the scabbard.
(Originally published in The Asses of Parnassus)
Meryl Streep, one of the most over-rated actresses in Hollywood.
–Tweet by U.S. President Donald Trump, Jan. 9th 2017.
He’s a smug and hateful Cheeto,
He’s a bully and a bore—
Launching his verbal torpedoes
In his twisted Twitter wars.
There’s no subtlety in his swagger,
And his vocabulary is atrocious.
He’s a bluffer with sub-par grammar,
And his ego’s quite ferocious.
His temperament is unbalanced,
And his talk is always cheap.
He has nowhere near the talents
Of his nemesis Meryl Streep.
He Contained Multitudes
(Originally published in The Poet Community)
Then aren’t there these two forms,
largeness and smallness? –Plato, Parmenides.
Walt Whitman’s ambitions
were so large & ferocious
they filled an entire Kosmos!
Mine is a smaller gnosis—
a microscopic intuition,
a ghost almost imperceptible.
A poem that goes bump in the night.
My tiny poltergeist
of the philanthropic transaction:
Just watch me disappear
out of sight with satisfaction.
I am infinitesimal.
I contain so many subtractions.
An Epistemology of Flesh
(Originally published in Lyrical Passion Poetry Ezine)
The suffering of the body
is most factual.
As real as a rock;
Pain is certain knowledge
on a cellular level.
An epistemology of flesh
as hard and sharp as metal.
But love can loom as large
as what pain can comprehend.
So we turn to metaphysics,
when we break instead of bend.