'Soggy' is a gross and perfect word.

the dish gobbler
If I had a holster on my belt, for magical weapons only to be deployed in circumstances prescribed by scripture or after-dinner-fortune, it'd be full of words like soggy. Particularly when I'm eating poor-man's cocoa crispies (aka "cocoa dyno-bites") does such a defiler come in handy.  My downfall commences even before I lift the spoon to my lips. Looking aghast into the dish cupboard, I motor into a crossroads of desperation, which my subconscious narrates like this: "oh bowls." 

This Risk, Art

When people, call them artists or whatever, invest all the energy they can into one another, into their work, they risk, maybe guarantee, investing the elements of themselves we call love and sexuality. At some intensity the various energies we pour into one another are no longer divided.  Its like the place we usually exist consists of compartments, small spaces where we isolate

Lemonade, with ice

let us build our dreams rapaciously,
know their heights and wind in their corridors,
I'll plant gardens in the solarium
and make music on the rooftops
and paint pictures, that welcome foreigners, on the roads
no doors, many murals,
and lemonade. yeah, lemonade with ice.

let's build our dreams rapaciously,
so when we meet again,
we'll tour our dreams for days.
the sugar of sweet solitude
sits on my lips
just waiting for you to lick it


Sometimes I wonder if Miles - my dog - is actually a genius.  Maybe a cosmic traveler, a character from some place way out there, a citizen of some society which has learned to disembody their souls in order to inhabit another creature far away.  This is his pilgrimage; he voluntarily accepts to be leashed by a lowly human (me) in order to explore his already lofty understanding of humility.  He's followed Jesus into the desert by welcoming the collar.

And then he pukes next to my blanket 'cause he's been munching grass in the park all afternoon.

Blues and Massive Blacks

these are the blues and massive blacks
of the open fields of genius
not smart, first
or writing on end, but free

My Brother

my brother's candlesmoke wanders in the hall
and our stone paths are still warm from the sun
he smiles at me from inside his cloister
my brother, barefoot and smiling,
walking with thoughts that will change the world.

Namibia [for Colin]

The cradle of infant beginnings
the bed - scorching and inhospitable - in which
the human babe cries to life
the future tyrrant cooing, the future friend in
I'm going to fashion you a pen
from the fallen feather of our epic's stork
and you shall write and weep joy
on the heartbeat of our history,
with the billion stones of our scorching desert cradle,
between your toes.
Take me with you when you go, to write and weep joy in the desert,
we'll add our puny voices to the boom of our ancient echo,
we are your futures!,
who will follow us,
what mysteries, none know,
this wonder, the adventure, what greatness.

Author Me Lakesides

Go word by word and bring me back.
Put together your piece like
you'd assemble this beach,
pick a billion stones for the role,
one by one, and then hand fulls,
bring your billion words to the shoreline
right up to the water, wash the dirt
from the backs of soiled

No Eden

                                                                                    for this garden
                                                            you've murmured into existence
                                                                     how should I proceed,
I want to promise you the words
                 not yet growing,
                                                 to till soils still
                                           deadened by flooding man,

Riding Bicycles Naked

riding bicycles naked
                                   must be awkwardly
                                    but seems so worthy
                                       the trouble, no?


burns my lip
leaves me my coat
asks me to a seat
lets be, me with my tea and
beckons my inward out.
                                             your beautiful hospitality.


what does idzerda mean?
           I ask my glass.
   Hm? and nothing.

                            the same I pose to the unlit room
                             interrupted only
                            by candled faces.

Without the Speaking Moon

                          when truth made the nation to see despite the dark
night was freed of its rapist.
she'd wailed about the heros crushed and shipped out,
                                                                     unloaded in the in-between
                                                                 always splitting sight from sight
                                                                 the moon gouged of its tongue


                         there is a riot in my chest
no longer the muffled discontent of one renegade
                                                 soap box
          but a chorus
      thousands strong                              singing in burning
                             their graffitti promises ruin
         they are gods
apocalypse will come from the prose on their tongues
                                  is their opiate
                                            they greet the fist of discipline
                              with bloody grins
                                                     from the city they call out their king
I know this, you see,              because
                            there is a riot in my chest.

Blades in the Earth

only blades in the earth know secrets
peaceful as these.

Watchmen on the Walls

Guava green gleams in the dilated eyes of Stosh Mugisha as she bleeds
Adrift on her back, in ocean of green grass and soil
the orchard of her childhood rises up around her and cannot stop this assault or even name her toil

Her thrashing has stopped
She no longer refutes the devil atop her
because it's like this, in Uganda, that homosexuals will be conquered

You see she loved to walk amidst the trees in the first


More U.S. soldiers died this month, July of 2010, than in any other of the 105 months since the first coalition bombs fell over Afghanistan. We cannot know the future cost of allowing our anger to navigate our policy, our morality or our tolerance. We do know, however, that two of the most calamitous foreign policy failures in United States history currently follow a trajectory decided by profound shortsightedness,


                                                                          books have their place
                                                               even poems, the occasional ear
lying softly, laid by a
         multitude of angels rebelling
                                        and vengeful,