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I love it—watching gray light bleed out over the makeshift bed on the floor.

A goddess was offended; her altar required my virgin blood.

But too much rain can translate anything to unspeakable.

My lust works like the tides pulling in reverse, controlled by a simple ballast.

Beyond her ampleness, he stands a small man vanquished.

With a hammer well aimed, try to destroy the whole with a single blow.

Condemned to an easy life balanced on the suffering in another land.

If life was exchanged, who is to say it flowed one way?

All the bears in the zoo look pathetic. Their eyes glazed, bodies lethargic.

A sociopathic streak on my father’s side I try to put to good use.

Salt provokes, tenderizes. Your wounds, your dinner.

She regarded the world calmly without the filter of her suffering.

David Hinton

Let’s walk down to the river, bless the paper boats and turn it all into wine.

You linger in the dimming aftermath, grayer and fainter than a breath.

I saw a bat in a dream and then later that week I saw a real bat.

I know which home takes the turning, which mind washes in hot water.

Art, like writing, is an invitation to be surprised, to be open to revelation.

I awakened on my belly—my back a raw field from nape to heels.

My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.

My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.

My mother’s house was packed, painted, put up for sale—sold.

Bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, and fill all fruit with ripeness.

Now he chuckles with the sea, stitched within its timeless jive.

I love scientists. They’re trying their hardest. And they just want love.

I should call my loves while I can to listen to the grackles croak.

The dove calls from far away in itself to the hush of the morning

Again, nature has written a good script. The skunk saga will continue.

The strange man expected to be picked up by aliens during the eclipse.