Your battle already won

Attack like the fire

And be still as a


Funny girl

Funny, I never thought of a machine as “being.”

The end was in sight.

Shelley be damned

Ozymandius had won

in the end.

Not knowing

Not knowing or not being aware

are so different


your not wanting to know

All religions, from tribal to tome, have the POV of a God looking at man as if in a mirror.

Not the least of which 

Means there is more. 

Whether you want it or not. 
I forgot what was important and in the forgetting wonder if it’s less important or if I am just failing in some way to grasp the weight of how important it is to remember everything important.
Like a notification telling you that your package has shipped. A letter telling you that you are being investigated by the authorities. A ring around the full moon, drifting, so that you wonder if you are the only one who sees that. 

I am happy to say I can stop the bad news

Continue reading “I am happy to say I can stop the bad news”

Our Fathers

There was no greater champion, no more exasperating argumenteur, there is no way to explain how my father’s death has effected me. 

He never handled injury or sickness well, being a doctor. But even the way he came to be a physician was unconventional, and so his par·si·mo·ni·ous nature was often misunderstood as a deficient joie de vive. Nothing could’ve been further from the truth.

He once up·braided me for buying a bottle of water, which I justified explaining I only sprung for one every two weeks or so once the plastic seemed done in, you could tell by the stink. 

While clearly unmoved by the factual details, he seemed in theory to relent to the logic of setting one’s penurious priorities. 

We weren’t related, a point his parents were sure to bring up every chance they got. The bastard child is a phrase I got used to, much to the chagrin of everyone else who was neither adopted nor bastard. How often the topics of my experience were simply off limits – from the abuse (not by my father but he could not discuss it even tho he acknowledged my pain) – I was told, simply, to get over it.

Just get over it.

The problem with rape, assault, incest, abuse and harassment is-no one wants to hear about it. 
So there you are, dissociative disorder in hand, on the receiving end of hand-me-down dysfunction whereby you are told if you say a word, no one will believe you… And you will be sent back.

Sent back – where?


A dirty word 

-but not from him. Who, on Sunday mornings, would turn to me and say I couldn’t go in to daisy’s cage today, she was not in the mood. And there I’d stand with my vanilla wafers for our recovering raccoon, while my father, the zoologist-radiologist went in… 

#metoo is not about my father but what he had to reconcile – he could not and did not protect me from a predator within four walls….

…with your wild furies..

Now, rich order of walls is fallen…

This is one of three poems to perfectly describe the breakdown of a marriage – the others will be revealed in forthcoming dispatches from the subterranean reaches of the soul land, a dream space no one can inhabit for long and can never satisfactorily convey when back “in reality.” The dream time where we know what will happen but wake up as if we had not seen, heard or felt the warning signs dissuaded by mass groupthink, the hive mind will transform you more than you think, sitting atop your throne whichever one you sequester and call yours alone – when many have sacrificed to put you there.

The conversation is in silence
Confessions on a rainy alter
She jumps
He is pushed