A Poem — I am the stuff of legend she The starving artist shows the carving knife beside her belly button press the tattoo feed her bread steal away her sudden need to signal from inside her head allegedly, the tune sounds blue blue red It’s time to go to bed

A Poem — It once betrayed its lord for peace that would not come, though peace was sent Impatient darkness, hidden from his kindly government We know the cold chameleon begs its question, I am sure of it: “When will he relent?” To gather courage from his words It decorates its space in thirds with mentions of its master’s name How carefully its fingers trace, absurd embrace of cowardice “Am I afraid of love or blame,” it asks, in God’s name

A Poem — Audio version On this night, again villainy made its music Strained, my eyes won’t look, nor seek not anymore, not what you speak I hear your voice attack Its hustling angle of approach delights the bellicose dark On this night I read the black ink of your contract My eyes made first contact and I…

A Poem — She hoots the television screen transcribes her chant into whatever you want the worst kind of translation and the best You cannot trust before I understand And I cannot understand until you return Flying through the air, our souls have sung their songs, and some have nests among the rocks, and some in…

A Poem — Fading out, Tertullian quieted his quill “It doesn’t mean anything,” he said Ruffled feathers Tired, sore-necked canvas of sweat, draped in defeat Five times seven, His name unspoken underneath the breath of turkeys chased in the evening Lower back screaming for help from the decade of neglect Resting in the front row “What does it mean,” she asked, staring at the paper that cost them a good dinner He shouted six words of silence They stabbed at him “Let’s go for a walk,” she said He stopped, slowly, slowly, secretly smiling “Tell me you love me,” she said He signed his name and showered it with sand, set down his stylus, and stood “It doesn’t mean anything, my love”

Israel Two, 20/21 — Smoke is the rhythm of the willow bloom A man inspired, a woman thus endowed With pipe and hearth in woody sitting room They, keeping silent, both create a cloud And so I’m told The author touches Clean paper And wonders And breathing smoke like dragon’s breath he smiles At naked power, naked thunder, grins, Suddenly remembering the flower Smoke is the rhythm of the willow bloom

Israel Two, 18/21 — How beautiful is the rose in her glory Who knows what a rose is, a flower How holy is the moment lived Who knows of his death, the hour The Star of David is his six-sided heart, is it not But God has yet his sevenfold Spirit I am speaking of things…

Israel Two, 16/21 — I am entering eternity With all my insecurities Intact Like psychic shells, As loaded questions for the shotgun strapped across my back I submit my grey imagination to your liking that of bringing light of brightening and of climbing high mountains sailing low seas As my hand appears to be spinning a revelation Yet my pen is fixed in its place Offering new reflection in its revolution the world keeps turning surely God is listening

Israel Two, 15/21 — Oozing borders bleed in the wash life blood baby child you let the music move you in the dark, quiet amber, healing A projection show but perfect soft and slow not wicked blue lights and pictures manifold wants, desires to be open, to be Every lizard in the king’s palace Every lizard in the king’s hand I found the pure white stitches are looking worthwhile And the golden pages