The taste of violets wakes me
and I peer into anvil-black night,
as the steaming plain
suffocates me with monster hands of wheat
and bares teeth yellow
from chewing on too many blackened souls.
The paralyzing, hypnotic thrill of the natural chase
makes me want to stay and be devoured.

Slow Suicide

No, it will not be the arm and leg
or the womb
you will have to sacrifice
that will finally end you,
but rather the million mundane injuries
to your living soul
that score your psyche with paper-fine cuts,
bleeding imperceptibly,
until you quietly hemorrhage in your sleep.

Wayfaring Stranger

When I finally returned home
I found myself
mystified by an alien land
where I didn’t speak the language anymore,
where sincerity was foreign currency
no one seemed able to exchange,
and honesty a feeble Esperanto
spoken by few, no longer learned by any,
where people eyed the open heart I displayed
with the kind of horror reserved for the
naked man on a city bus;
where people shied away from my fire,
fearing the burn,
and I thought myself the sun,
perhaps able to shine as brightly as I wished
as long as there were ninety-three million miles
between me and those I warmed.


On a slate gray afternoon she churns and tosses,
spraying all comers with indifferent venom,
grasping red iron couriers in her gnarled hands,
she chews fiercely on them with white foamy fangs.
Vicious without malice, tearing and scouring
the ever-changing land,
adding to the cache of bodies she has hoarded so constantly
of respectful, foolish men who thought to tame her,
her caprice their mortal lesson.