Parting the Veil

Strawberry eyes drawn grey,

awoke in nights ruined black.

Awake, roused from cobwebbed dreams,

and so little light to navigate the spongy floor.

A diffuse beacon reminds,

but so much faith required

to move through the thickened air.

A tickle, a quiver, a bowed back stands rigid,

and so small steps quicken—

then STOP.

What is this unseen motion

running like static charged fingers

through bed-sheet stamped hair?

And then there’s the thumping,

rushing from chest to ear,

throbbing like a conqueror worm

feasting on coiled grey tissue:

run and it will chase.

The beacon reminds:

chase and it will run.

And so movement comes with reluctance,

the cloying atmosphere

gummy and resistant.

Yet something stirs the solar plexus,

pulsing out,

grappling with some undefined point

near the beacon,

things become clearer.

This unbearable push and pull,

so the pace is perfect.

The moment blinks blindness from its eye,

nothing so raw as being here now.

And this notion robs the past of its future.

Be here now,

as if there is a choice. 

Bee Shaman

It pulls a flaccid mask of skin away,
empty sockets without eyes to stare.
It is revealed,
glistening in honey and wax.


Its call brings the bees,
swarming they enliven the mask. 
It pierces me with a gaze
that cleaves my thoughts,
stopping them.


Should I thank it?

The bees percolate out its mouth,
just a trickle at first,
then a fountain.
Billowing yellow smoke
they take to the sky,
defining intricate patterns 
and writhing constellations.

The crowd sees a show,
and thinks it's a performer.
They throw money.
Just another gypsy street artist,
a bee charmer.

I know better.


Curious words fill my mind:
teotish stammish,
tombayashi,
and others I can't write.

I'm invited back to its trailer.

As it dons another costume:
radiator face
and eyes with no whites,
it shows me its wares.
These fuzzy cones
aren't just decorations,
crafts and curios.

I don't buy them,
but they already own me. 

Compelled

Late-night hours,
contacts shrink-wrapped 
over my eyeballs.

Gummy lips
prodded by
my darting tongue.

Four fingertips: asdf  jkl;
the building blocks
of my creation.

Before the Flood

My hands are overstuffed
Mickey Mouse gloves -
numb and enormous.
Paralytic poison
seeps from the seams,
stitching tingling tendrils
up my forearms
as I roll onto my back.

The door to sleep creaks shut.

Everyday awareness infiltrates
my sanctuary, 
reminding me with the dull ache
of blood starved limbs
engorged once again.  

Spirit becomes matter.

Something scurries away,
slipping into the murky world
I've left behind,
where my overstuffed white gloves 
now lay in wait. 

The Morning After

Sunlights paper-thin orange leaves-
flaming Japanese lamps.
Dappled Monet droplets-
sprayed lemon juice
onto the ocher desert floor.

A mourning dove descends,
a flurry of silver before 
it regains its regal composure
atop the coyote fence.

Dog's upturned nose
robs the wind of its scent
and the distant hills burn red,
leaving in their wake jagged charcoal tips.

High Plateau

Coyote's laughter peals
through the night,
folding the darkness
into aural origami.

Lightning dawns on the horizon,
eyes drifted upward
breath in the glittering show.

Skeletal clouds
exhale smokey siblings,
lit by the kiss
of a waxing moon.