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Spinning Walt Whitman

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In San Francisco, there rides at night a phantom streetcar whose driver is none other than Walt Whitman . . .

Luck Dragon.

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:)

Saturday Morning

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They kiss, opening their mouths into a smile, sharing a secret. Their kiss is so intimate. I blush, and look away embarrassed and a little aroused.

Shira Dances

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She feels the music deep in her belly,her hips swaying, she looks out through lids no longer guardedand sees you, Her knees bend, her eyes close, She is moving back and forth,a pulse in time,Her arms snake around her head,She does not ask,may I enjoy myself?…

She Rose From the Weeds

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you drove by the woman standing on the verge the woman with the shoulders of a long distance swimmer and you told yourself her story: she'd slept in the wiregrass she carries…

The Introduction

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Lucy looked up, smiled and said mine had a head that looked like a mushroom. I suppose she was right. We were sitting on the floor drawing naked bodies for our anatomy lesson and teasing each other about our lack of drawing talent. We were new friends, having met when…

Under the Night Sky

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wonder at all the things done without regard for you at all.

Diary of a Marriage

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Well, it’s a cold dance we dance this morning. You are up at the crack of dawn and the bed is empty even before you leave. I pretend to sleep so I can revel in the delicious morning ritual I know will be ending soon. I hear you brew coffee, shower, tal

Mean People Suck

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He said his wife levitated.

Goodbye, Brother

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My brother died in his sleep almost two months ago. He was 25. He was addicted to pharmaceuticals. Two days before he died, he fell asleep at the wheel and crashed his truck into a highway sign. It was the last thing he owned. He had been living with m

Old or Fat

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Which is worse?

Snow Angels (after Sandy Hook)

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The weatherman can't predict accumulation. He can only tell you it will be cold. Expect ice, wind, snow, expect delays. Your daughters play outside, dancing around the Evergreen, its branches bearing the weight of snow, its branches

The curtain

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In the evening the curtain recounts its day. Faces, images, incidents it has observed from the window. Its voice is nuanced, modulated, quivering, for it is made of lace. It appears to crochet its words with needle sounds. My eyes, during confinement, are not wide open, not…

Errol

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He prided himself on being not menacing like a bear.

The Poet. Pt. 2

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for the rush of longing and brush with flight that is her imagination will surely lift her above the traffic

Human Kind Can’t Bear Very Much Reality

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Particles flung by the sun pierce us through, undetected

Wedding Bells

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I avoid weddings like the plague.

This Is Why I Loved You

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Your opal eyesYour sea-blue eyesYour sky-blue eyesYour ice-blue eyesYour gray-blue eyes, your periwinklesYour hazel eyesYour violet eyes(almond-shaped and almost cubist)Your indigo eyesYour topaz eyes, your sunkissed lashesYour turtle-sundae eyes.I loved your black shiny…

Make-Believe

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My sister plays Jesus.

Rose Hill

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angels and lambs drunkards and whores

one dozen haiku

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strumming on the pipe/blowing on the lute's body/drumming on the horn.

Chores

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... honestly, the dishes were just tired. Too few in number and washed too often, they dreamed of an escape -- any escape, really -- from the endless cycle of hot water and being racked together to dry ...

A Life of My Own

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You don't make money worrying about other people's feelings. I learned that from my father at an early age. He managed rental properties, which I, his daughter, now own. He wanted a son, so I became one.

Early Winter Haikus

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Regret

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Every time I read a great line by another writer, I feel fear.

The Conversation

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Listening is loving. What is more erotic than these fathoms, skeins, words, roping tight the ardent ear.

In the Stream of Space Expanding, Eddies

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Microscopic purposes emerged// with their combinations and permutations

Lisa Duncan's Mom

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Lisa Duncan's mom was puffy, and you could always see part of her breasts.

The Alchemist

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A new constellation in the sweet hereafter.

Sometimes, an audience of one is enough

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not of time, but of all the clocks/ that tick along toward the end/ of all the possibilities.