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The astrologers say there may be shocks at this time. Today I thought: What if my father comes back from the dead?
Then I gorged on ice-cream and chocolate and thought: How do I leap again?

And I look at a photo of an old love and see a prayer mark on his forehead
He's talking about the i-ching and his place in this world

And don't think I'm singling anyone out

No, the faces are all one

but I turned mine away

from all their languages and all their pretence and all their wanting things to be this way or that and all their complications

Those stories, I don't even want them as fiction

I have changed all my mirrors and now only look at videos of myself because I want a moving image

Yes. You. And you. And you. If you're reading. You were a hero suicide.

End. Exhibit 1

In the hands of God

in the pink pulse of a Whatsapp msg

of a tiring heart

either I am not a good judge of character

or you were a great actor

or some shit happened that I don't know how to track it

then an ending like all endings

unhappy and strange

the future divided

and we speak different languages now, uncommunicated

and wrapped in stone

The New Life

Day 5 of the new life. 5 the number of change. Say 5 to ward off bad energy. 5 is Kali - death and renewal. 5 fingers. 5 toes. Extremities of life. Extremes. Let's stretch. Let's stretch our fingers to the sky and stars. Let's feel the ground with our toes. I did not die. I died. I live. This is the new day. This is the new life. I check my emotional perimeter. I circumambulate. I raise my heart. Raise my mind. Rise.

Where None May Pass But You

In the forest where non may pass but you

for you have trapped me in this place of screams

through canopies dreams steal

replacing the dark


Your footseps tread the perimeters

axe in hand you measure the smell of me

determining whether to come


No


You will wait


You always wait


and I in my wooded suit hear the emptiness in your breath

the twisted glee in your steps


It is you and I determining a drama


the pain of father

Mute Route

The goose flies unsure of anything
it cries
awakes those comfortable, slumbering souls


I watch from my bed of expectations
half awaiting
for a moment I'm distracted
elsewhere
on the plumage of this lost aviator


If the goose cannot find its way
what hope have I?
I'm gone, intoxicated
the bird has evidently found a flight path
for the sky is rendered silent
and I tread a mute route, once more

In the Blood

My love is a Lughnasadh fire, a passion burning, it is a drum in the night, a new moon bell ringing, my love is not complacent nor ordinary, it will not forget to kiss, it take its place and declares all its heart. Late at night. Early in the morning. In the afternoon hours. Its harvest is fecund.