Reanimated Lavender Granola Switchblade Nun rides again.

Sunday, March 28, 2021

Mrs. Daedalus


At twenty, I loved how you always had to have the wind in your hair.

You and Diogenes, honest, blunt, tactless assholes

drinking wine on the balcony,

grabbing truth out of thin air with gesticulating hands. 

I adored you and that's nothing new.

At forty-five you haven't changed,

You're still the Greek MacGyver,

but it only makes me want to vomit.

Our son is dead

I don't forgive you

and that's the stone fucking truth.


for Sunday Muse #153.

Friday, March 19, 2021


 "Got a wife and kids in Baltimore, Jack

I went out for a ride and I never went back" --Bruce Springsteen "Hungry Heart"

When I met you I was nineteen and on intimate terms

with Beat poetry and Budweiser,

sitting at the bowling alley bar, Howl in my hand,

sweat from a gin and tonic on the margins.

You'd read the books I hadn't even heard of yet,

an ex-teacher ten years ahead, 

scrawling The Wall, Jean-Paul Sartre in pencil inside the cover of a book I've still got

and I miss you every time I see it.

I was like a little firefly and you the night,

warm as July, funny as the best bonfire story,

drunk as skunks and amazed with each other,

we made Detroit seem like a thing worth doing twice.

I get that ache, you know, like looking at a night road,

maybe the one you took out of town to an interview that never was.

Couldn't you have given me your unhappy restless heart?

I would've done anything to soothe the blue if you had let me.

From nineteen to thirty is a long stretch.

Maybe it began to feel like a bad fit when I sobered up.

Didn't you know, you were my favorite high and I'm sorry

if your suffering got by me, and I lost you forever 

From being so sure you would always be there.


for the Sunday Muse #152.

Sunday, March 14, 2021

Ginger Bang

There is a fox wrapped around your eye,

his black front feet like lashes,

his back like a ginger bang.

They say a person with a fox around their eye

is shy but up

to something,

makes a poor pet

and makes you miss the morning,

caught like a rooster's neck in the charm of their 

quick and

toothy grin.


This Train

This is the train that circles the sun,

set on a single direction.

Memory has no beginning on this train,

and though I've made my nest in the straw and dirt of an ancient car,

a home in motion never feels like one.

There is no deer trail here, only deaf rails.

The way behind no longer exists except in my longing.

The way ahead is obscured but always near,

like a huntsman and his hounds and so I run while lying still.

This train is containment and escape, a snake eating its tail.

I began helpless but grew strong,

believing the power in my body drove all motion.

I began foolish but wounds made me wiser,

and though I've been quick as winter light and now slow as March thaw,

the train keeps its pace and me with it.

I have leapt and spun in circles and still I rode the train.

Now I sigh and slowly sink to my straw, 

the passing scene softer but filled with phantoms.

My life has been pursuance of prey and sidestepping of traps,

but always, the familiar yet foreign, perhaps imagined

headlong terror of the train.


for Sunday Muse #151.

Saturday, March 6, 2021



is the place where starlings gather thick as macchiato,

singing expressivo in the morning, bedlam fortissimo at sunset.


is where the old gather silent, still as a reverie,

rallentando until dawn, then second-souled,

blue-eyed, demanding life again, vivace.


discard heavy indigo, the ultramarine of too many days,

dissolve into a new chromatic scale, alive with starlings,

expressing without thinking, dolce, 




for The Sunday Muse #150.