The bread becomes the baker

(for Alice and Belinda....finally)




The bread becomes the baker


The baker does not exist
until bread-making begins.

Fingers are ropes.  Hands, 
lumps of mute flesh until

they touch the flour, until 
they form the loaves, until 

they roll the dough around 
and around, turning the planet.

The sun does not rise until 
the oven’s fire rubs the last

of the rest from the eyes
of the yeast and wakes it fully 

from its bed within the warmth, 
until the nascent crumb 

stretches, yawns and grows
upon the crest of the day

when the baker becomes the bread
and again ceases to exist.







Bone Rune


bones poke through 
thinning flesh

flesh wants to let go 
of bones

it is hard to find comfort 
in a bag of bones

hard to find anything to give 
but hardness

it is hard to find anything
but bones

there is only hardness 
and the bag










(another one for the bone cycle)




false face 11 (mirrors of our words)

reflex_ion-18



What mask do we wear?

How well do we wear it?

How deep are we willing to dig?

We DO want people to judge us 
by the cover, as long as it’s the 
cover we choose to present,
the prettiest mask in our collection,
or the most beautifully, brilliantly ugly one.

We create yet more layers 
of persona on the shell of the self,
protecting a precious kernel of emptiness 
with self upon self 
up on the shelf,
yet another and another 
newer edition 
of this tired old tale,
another coating of shellac 
to protect this shell,
this crust of need,
this unsightly seed,
this spinning singularity
of validation and denial.

Is this person or persona?

There is only persona.

This character that
I play, confusingly, 
conveniently,  
a border, a coin, 
a nation, a commerce.  

Here is my cover.

My mind wanders and I chase after it
and then,
if all goes well, 
I give chase to the one giving chase 
and then....

i take a breath
i let the breath go
i let go of taking breaths

i let go of chasing
i let go of letting go
i let go of not letting go