STAR SNIPPING

From your porch

the endless stars

shine like silver holes

that have been

shear-snipped

from the black

blanket of night

as if you were

the only one with

scissors between

your fingers and

blood on your palms.

Is there a greater

darkness than

wanting? A greater

yearning than shaping

the infinite heavens

into a pattern fit

to be sewn? 

Above you,

the halved autumn

moon tips in the sky,

and it slices through

the ambivalent clouds.

THE ANTI-HERO'S JOURNEY

Some revelations come to us
as music, some as magic, and
some as myths whose stories,
like damp black soil, grow
such perfect heroes
and gods that we
already know
when we first
learn of them
that their skills
exceed our
dreaming
and their
power
exceeds
our
reach.

AUTUMN FROM A DISTANCE

hemingway once said
write the truest sentence
you know, but
how can I? The only poetry
I have in me are
the pictures she sends
of meadows greener
than magazine photos
and trees with leaves
so gold they are currency
for my eyes.

SUBURBAN WALK (5 A.M.)

The pre-dawn sky
is nothing but an
indigo blanket
the tips of the trees
silent & motionless
the branches
skinny & naked
leaning toward
the silver stars
extended like hands
that are praying
or dying or both.
Sprinklers hiss & spit
in the darkness,
hoping to green the lawns
of their owners.
Suddenly, a jackrabbit bursts
from a bush, its left
eye riveted to my chest.
Along the avenue
cars are jet black
silhouettes
their engines
turned to ice
beneath their hoods.

SOCIETY'S RIVER

the minister cradles
our heads
over society's
river of indifference
and thrusts our crown
below the surface,
while invoking
the name of God
in a voice tinged
honey and lust.
Every day, he tells
us later, we live out
our baptism.
He doesn't know
the half of it.

BY THE SEA

sometimes I
sit near the bay
on an iron bench
& I lean my head back
against the wall.
with slow, even breaths,
I consider the universe.
sometimes meditation
is an escape
and sometimes it’s just
escaping & yes,
there is a difference.

IGNORING NORTH PARK

You say I’m not

allowed to mention

the rose that was

so red I could see it

in the shadows

even when the entire
room was blanketed in 

romantic darkness. 
Don’t mention 
the house, you say,

that sat in a line of

houses in that

neighborhood of

quaint, old homes,

and yet was different

than the others simply

because they had never

guarded a private moment

of mine, a moment

whose beauty made

my heart explode

like summer fireworks. 

Fine. I won’t mention them

(If that’s what you want)

but they will still

burn and burn and burn

like a flame 
in the part of me

where speech has

been exiled.