Light your sage, smoke me out,
salt your windows and thresholds—
pray there’s a light for me
and one for you as well.
Physics be damned, and logic…logic?
There’s a world—ultra-, infra- to your
spectrum, your matter cage and confines of reason.
I number among a nation of spectres
cavorting in the static and phone wire
ing you sleep, and not sleep, listening
to you wonder about me. I could brag of
how it looks from here: the mystery, she’s naked now.
But gloating is what the lesser do. So
I’ll blow in your ear, brush by you, place
what was once a hand on your shoulder,
insert a remembered face into your dreams.
Your grief is a cold rain, to pass.
I am the filament beyond it.

Video Poem Links Here


Ecology of Atman

Were Heaven just a garden,
and life its soil, and we the seeds,
and death the sun, and dying spring,
where pneuma blooms perfume the air
lit upon by bodisattvas of the meadow,
then all we’ve really never known
is how we are so tended to.

Video links here



(for Blake)

Stories exchanged, details halting
from constricted throats, the air—
a somber pleurisy pierced by welcome
occasional laughter; we remember
our dead in this way.

Like elephants, we pick up the bones
and kiss them, handle them, feeling for
pocks and notches, their wounds and wornness.
We fold the remnants into our long memory
then in tender uncoiling, replace them
on the ground.

A gray procession
lumbers home; our giant tears
muddy the path.


Video link here


Published, February, 2016 in Timberline Review



Under the Bodhi Tree

The plague wasn’t a static point in time,
but a predictor of other plagues, and
an echo of earlier ones.

Holocausts and genocides still happen,
a form and its shadow, and its shadow’s shadow.
Forward isn’t a direction that can be sustained.

Even the Sun – a formidable animal
in its gleaming meanness is a slave
to gravity’s momentum, an incessant

drone, a constant poem.
A tree’s ascent–seed drilling the sky
a dervish obeying the drum.

Life spirals, so we’ve been going
in circles this whole time.
There is no way out of these woods.

Frangipani Grove

When all of this has gone
away, and the sun is a silver
memory, the moon: a stone
in a sky of stones, and bones
are sand, and land is flame—
when all potential in the void
gleans some notion that it could
explode, expand, become a world
again and then collapse and
fail as ages do, even then
the heart endures
in dark throb
a flint fire
a god song.

The Comfort of Gravity

This pedestrian psalm:
a gray meditation on

the ordinary, an escape from
the pedantic, officious cage

and collar, and debt, oh debt—
short leash pulling me home.

Psalm nests in a prayer
saying, no more waking up.

But like a hair anchored
to a long, deep root, a

tenacious cling rouses
me to low clouds again.

What is happiness, exactly?
It might be a promise that

all emptiness would be filled,
every cavity returned its contents,

hunger sated, the answer spoken,
the answer, understood.

All roads are conduits of time.
We never move from place to place,

but through a membrane of now
and now and now.

Space was never there;
matter never mattered.

Eternity is too frightening
a prospect, so a linear myth

convinces us of the safety
of falling, presumes the certainty

of solid ground and its
gift of collision, crash, and

thud, before we come to rest
in the end of weightlessness—

the end of everything.
This is what happiness is.

Published at Linus Gallery (online), July 2015