"god" is a word.
"god is dead" is three words.

Meaning is fluid, pumping 
from three words
to what you believe 
I believe.

“guts” is a word.
“I hate your guts” is four words.

I don’t know your guts.
My words are
meaning moving in
your guts.

“Can you taste the venom in my soul?”
I have no soul.
You have no guts
to call your own.
Venom has no taste and
no vessel. 

“Guts” is just a word.
“Soul” is just a word.

“god” is 
just a word.
God is just.
God is justice.

Justice is a worm.

I have worms in my guts,
God’s guts.

...puttin' the Po' in NaPoWriMo...

A ten year old boy

A ten year old boy
grabs the 
fishing gear catalogue
from the floor
by the door
where it fell
through the slot.
He takes it to the living room
with blanket milk and cookies
flops down on bony elbows
and flips through glossy pages
upon pages of lures like jewels
and reels of alloyed aluminum
and turned titanium
perfected machines
for catching fish
finders that now show 
not just blips in the blue
but what the fish themselves are eating
and what they ate last night
and how they feel about the weather
spool upon box upon spindle of
line and tippet and leader
floating sinking and mid-level lines
of every kind
rods of every conceivable length
and type
and quality
and material
and portability
and boxes and bags 
for all this inconceivable variety of glorious gear
and vests with a thousand pockets
and purpose-built hats 
and hip-boots and waders
to wear while using it all

a man,
years of age,
puts down this 
glamour-mag for 
guys, this piece of 
Piscean porn, 
vaguely disappointed 
in his new-found disinterest,
stands up,
pulls up
his pants
and flushes.

...puttin' the Poo' Po' in NaPoWriMo...

Bone Dance

You were the one who lived through your body
          while eye lived in mind.

When you opened your mouth,
	your bones spoke to me.

They told me 
how they wanted to dance,
how they longed to be free
the skin and the flesh
the creature they framed.
wanted to dance in the sky,
dangle in the trees.
wanted to rattle in the breeze
punctuate the silence
their hollow music
all I wanted 
                    was to feel them

under my fingers.

Desperate Angel

My response to the  Three Nuts and a Squirrel  challenge...
a shameless bit of Holiday smut for you...


You know what I will do
you know you will not stop me.

I will
release the fragile bird that you keep 
locked up tight in 
that cage under the thin 
crust of your self control


I know how to crack 
that safe and I know what hides there
and how it longs to be
free of its soft prison.  I hear that treasure
ticking and trembling and I know how to twist 
and tweak those dials,
how to drive my tongue like a truck 
the furrows of your flesh into that
deepest of valleys where hides 
the master switch,
that desperate 
angel of your 

A quote from JBC, a fragment from me

“The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds; and the pessimist fears this is true.”
——–James Branch Cabell

…and with that honeyed tongue she bathed me in

the light upon her lathe and stoked the fires

in which we age and turned me untill I knew not

where came love or loss or faith or dreams…