When Parch Meant Thirst

in these hills
the awakened divine
rouse to chorus

not so unkind
that you cannot lift your legs
and move on

sallied forth to each corner coroner
by every winter wind
unwound beneath the unfurled

to the memory of last night

drunk and standing in front
of a dark, empty house
weighted by bags
and the rain;

if we are alive,
if fortunes are divulged
on tiny scraps of paper
found within a twisted

“today, you will find something you have been looking for”

an implication
that something may have been lost
an implication
that something may have been desired

what does it matter now
if the world is bipolar,
we inhabit the same fault lines
torn by north and a south

only this —

what is remarkable
after nights of clouds
is the moon overhead,
a verging birth


Two dirty shingles over a bending blade, this
House reaches through time and space
Learns to cut again; and it cuts, such divisiveness,
Decisively deceptive
Like the lilt of listing laments, the litany of longing
To be cataloged by librarians,
And spoken: your friend is dying,
Your friend is full of inconsistencies…
And more than once, the uncertain narrator pauses,
Breath taken by a sentence that spans a year,
A home to be remembered, brandished, where
Everything changed, sharper than life itself.
In these times, he wonders when joy devised to be
So fleeting; so he says it, the heart
Can be a poem too, composed of fragments
And so hard.

Sissy Fuss

I am sick of fighting
The last five years of gravitas;
An ill-defined weight
The consistency of sunsets,
A loose and lugubrious bearing
Come undone.

I have clung to the hope
That the gods might intercede,
A sword, a shield, a horse
With wings, and an idea:
Somehow I was meant for more
Than a metaphor
In an intruding myth.

Truth is,
We all carry our own boulders
Up that hill, shoulders
Pressed against grit
And grunt,
The significance
Of impetus — a long awaited
Tumble to resume the cycle
In our private dusks,
Freed from the burden of
Light and moss.

So then,
At zenith’s peak a rolling rock
Comes crashing down,
The strange moss grows,
Sick of fighting
Inertia, desperate to hold on —
How can it
As it clings and gathers
For dear life,
Flung every which way.