the end of it

blow out the candle
fluff the pillow
fold the afghan
turn off the tv
and the light
it’s the end

and the room
is ready to be
lived in again.


the silk ‘round my neck

parisian scented

it is figured in
     an eight

to cocoon the new
     life that

w f m jr.

drop a dime
dolly polly,
just checkin’.
fair to midland.
it can be rough
you got it.
you’re my girl.


     the three o’clock light
from under the window shade
fell across my skin.

     your shadow moved on
through the dust particles
dancing between us.


the strings knot
     they close
so tight

miser,  coins
‘round in it

unspent, saving

cull them out
     you are not

enchant, beguile
     the florins
and spend

light study

having no natural heat source,
his light is not incandescent;
not observably brilliant,
in contact, no iridescence.
some would argue that the only
light off of him is fluorescent:
generating endurance if
and only if activated.
but having shattered the glass globe
to swim around the filament,
contrary to what some may see,
I have discovered the light stored:
alarmingly phosphorescent-
illuminating transcendence.


one flake falls
     for me
to catch with my tongue.

cold collects
summer's freckly cheeks.

it has come
     to sit
a while to visit.

over due

reaching for something unrelated
in a dusty corner of an old bookcase,
it fell out.
I knew that it wasn't lost.

snow date

snow littered the vacant park
as we walked away from the diner
heading toward a frozen pond
as cabs rushed through slush
seeing that we weren’t for hire.
quiet fell into us,
me, holding tight to his arm.

snowflakes fluttered around
us like summertime when the
flower beds hunch over the pond
welcoming all of god’s wings to
visit, pollinate, and feed.
not there now, quiet fell into us.

clouds escaped as I whispered
in a thick accent to my companion,
not that I was from another place,
but as a little game we played.
once at a bar, legs wrapped ‘round,
we passed notes en francais,
he practiced; me still etudiant.

I haven’t seen him for too long now,
but as I pause to consider the
ease of his self and the curls
that would sprout from his bald head,
I remember the quiet.
and holding tight to his arm.


Ichthyopthirius Multifiliis

 protected in turreted cystic castles,
an unwelcome burrow between scales-
it cuts beneath skin
feeding on tender tissue.
nestled in its bristly cocoon, 
offspring shoots to the floor-

splintering into hundreds of frenzied parasites

ready to devour the group.

the phenomenon is not organic,
not bred in the habitat.
singular celled, smallest speck of filth,

it is ick.

blood from a turnip

it isn't impossible
to get blood
from that turnip as
scientists have
genetically modified
plants to produce
human blood proteins.

potential can exist
and be released
when task to mind-
researched and tested.

it isn't only sorcery-
or some other magic
that pulls honey
from the rock.

bewitch, yes,
but the alchemy
of science,
a tested hypothesis,
can produce
a proven result
that not gold, but 
a life source
can be extracted.


for Don QuiQue, the man who taught me how to make ceviche, may God bless him

always one to walk up the mountain,
scraps of food in his pockets
to treat every stray along the way.

until they were too broken to climb,
old buddies travelled with,
ending with whiskies and coconut water.

on Three Kings' Day, candies
would fill his pockets to gift
the kids who ran up to him

orange knee’d with the stamp
of the clay soil that choked flowers
but held a palm tree firm.

I tried to climb that mountain once
but it was too steep, and my
flat feet were not used to the pound.

he laughed and said, ok, you stop here
and I’ll catch you on the way down,
we’ll have a nice glass of wine.

my name always rolled off of his tongue
thick with accent and an old English-
wise words always sang forth.

once he put on the counter all of the
makings for his specialty dish:
octopus and shrimp ceviche.

come, he said, I will show you how,
some garlic, capers, onions,
chop up the tentacles  chunky.

mix together with olive oil and vinegar,
ah, this is the best, from home,
we’ll have wine and maybe some whiskey.


I felt him
not knowing
I didn’t know
what to think

the pull was
aimless and

he bought
a round
for the bar
fine spirits

evening moved
to early hours

by its end
you had me
tucked in

your coat
was fine fibered
broad in its cut

no promise
no articulation

effeuiller la marguerite

summer’s innocent calls the rise in day,
its powdery petals sprinklin’ across
field and yard indiscriminately
in everlasting flowering bouquets.

.            tous les jours, mon amour, je t’aime, je t’aime
aimez-vous, aimez-moi, aimez-vous, aimez-moi

picked and threaded in delicately wound
chains woven in my own gossamer locks
holding youth to the long days of summer
and the wonders of simplicity found.

tous les jours, mon amour, je t’aime, je t’aime
aimez-vous, aimez-moi, aimez-vous, aimez-moi

loyal to love, one pluck for yea, one not,
patience is born of the rays of plenty
that orbit out from its sun centerpiece
quick to hold a number to tie a knot.

tous les jours, mon amour, je t’aime, je t’aime
aimez-vous, aimez-moi, aimez-vous, aimez-moi

long day and bounty permit long sessions
contemplating the delight of whether
love is found for the ardent admirer,
though what is posed is hardly the question.

             tous les jours, mon amour, je t’aime, je t’aime
aimez-vous, aimez-moi, aimez-vous, aimez-moi

love you, love me, love you, love me, love me
is the anthem of the daisy command
on the mossy mound of long ago time
when the thought never not occurred to thee.

            all of the days, my love, I love you, I love you
            love you, love me, love you, love me