, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


~~ “He suffered with daring; he died without complaint”
Claude Cahun

~~ “He gon’ think I’m a ho
fuck that I liked it
I was drunk & it was my birthday anyway -”
Andre 3000 (spoken by Rosario Dawson)

In The Tree of Life
Malick fuses the link:
Berlioz’s Requiem,
brocade of grief.
And the dinosaur
who died by the river
where the dead boy caught crawfish
and his mother now stands
speechless as a Saint
or a rock
that may
or may not
be an old bone.
Bone, stardust, flight.
Her fingers trace
the rushes,
her hand becomes
a claw.


When he grabbed my neck
from behind
I heard Berlioz.
(Unto Thee shall all flesh come…)
Ascendent voices. Encircling lyrics
of loss, of pleasure
and the gorgeous
of death,
and I died to it –
to his linked fingers
and the chorus
and the leave-taking
his eyes took
so soon after ~
drop of rain in the desert.



A teacher said:
“the mind is slippery.”
I imagined an eel,
but really the mind
is a newborn child

all want and need and hunger
and guiding scents.

And these elements
change in relation
to one another –
solipsisms –
which is a slippery
for self-absorbed tale-telling
the kind we know best
and usually only.


I woke to swollen hands
and eyes that looked past themselves
in a dusty mirror.

It was time
for the quarterly burn.
I am an expert
at leaving
little villages
as an army might:
kill connections.
I love watching embers
lilting upward
to the night sky.

To one beau
I said:
“I am in the mood
for sparring.
And I will win, so please
stay away.”
In my kindness I spared him;
the rest I just deleted ~

I thought of writing to my children
while I walked in the rain:
Love everyone.
Trust no one.
And my Angels there
is no such thing
as a happy ending,
the repeat and repeat
of beginnings
that carry the weight
of a village priest
or a mother
burying her dead.