Persephone’s Tears

I’ve been thinking this gray day that
as you wander through the bleak and bitter terrain of your neglect,
it is not my disappearance you’ve been mourning;
the end of your own mother’s season was the
beginning of your overlong winter
and your tears are for her,
have been for her,
turning everything upside-down
as I was swept aside in your autumnal gusts and eternal grief.
I, too, weep for my mother and have no daughter;
our life together is an equal myth.
Six months is easy time compared to the
everlasting winter
I have shivered through in the shade
of your dark imaginings and icy regard.
You should know that it wasn’t a kidnapping,
but a rendezvous with a black heart that seemed
less greedily oppressive;
that I swallowed those six seeds
because I was starving, and ate
pomegranates because they were
luscious and red
and full of life
beneath a woody exterior
hardened by capricious
and vicious elements,
like me.


These are the bones of us all,
the universal skeleton of life
bleached and empty.
One may reasonably ask of old Yorrick,
“What makes any story worth telling
when they are so insistently the same?”
But yet I must tell you,
maybe around a flickering electronic flame,
because the stories are not the bones
but the flesh that hangs on them
the flesh of 31,546,000 seconds a year,
each one a discrete lifetime,
brilliant joy and sparkling death.
In knowing your story
I learn my own.
In telling my story
I write a love letter to the world.

Daily Ecstasy

I hereby move that we enact
a restraining order against the word
“guilty” within 50 yards of the word “pleasure.”

I hereby move that we immerse ourselves
in thick, creamy vats of pleasure,
gargle it,
until we are drunk on bliss
and our every nerve broadcasts
blue electric delight.

I hereby move that guilt is
abolished, and should be left
like shoes at the door before we dive in
head first.

I hereby move that it is our sacred duty
to find ourselves in carefree moments
to be so pleased with ourselves we giggle
to feel so good we shiver
to renew our too-polite acquaintance with joy.

Put It in Drive

the sound jars me out of deep road hypnosis, now
trying to remember when I turned the blinker on to get here,
having gone a thousand miles of unnoticed tinking and fluid thinking,
telegraphing my direction
to everyone behind,
the turn not the beginning, no, but a descendant
of a previous swerve, and maybe, too,
the tiniest bit of forgotten body English that became
a vast departure as the angle lengthened and the arc grew wider,
until someone else’s stained and faded map was sucked out the window and forgotten,
and yet somehow I have arrived anyway, and made good time.


It’s a hell of a vibe,
this song of mine,
if it don’t rattle your
fillings and maybe your
and because I sing it in a
fierce forte
you will see me alone on the stage
because the accompaniment always
seems to break strings and snap bows
on the crescendo
of a whole note.

Sotto Voce

The day I tried to sing my soul to you
you told me to hush
and the words fell, clattering to the ground
like rusty tin of no consequence,
and so I hummed to myself
to the beat of my own heart
and the throbbing of my regal veins
and the tapping of one foot in front of the other
a symphony of one,
and never silenced.