Paraphrasing E.M. Forster

It was a comrade.

Bending over the house,
strength and adventure
in its roots

But in its utmost fingers,

And the girth
that a dozen men
could not have spanned

Became in the end evanescent
till pale bud clusters seemed to float
in the air

It was a comrade

House and tree transcended any similes of sex
she thought of them now
and was to think of them
On many a day and windy night

But to compare either
to man
to woman

Always dwarfed the vision

Yet they kept within the limits
Of the human

their message
not of eternity
but of hope
on this side of the grave

Some Days From The Summer Of 2017 (for Adny)

I woke up at 3:48 to my telephone covertly downloading software updates to itself I was also in my own world overcome by doubts I felt myself at a fence at the farthest border of the the pen I used to play in The place where the garden stopped and the real mesh began I'm angry with my fingers and the way they and the software disagree And the way the words I try to emit are tangled and paused An intrusive rain is static at my window and seeing as it faces the back of the house, the rain is private and only mine I am not upset about the cracks in the screen I'm disappointed by myself

I'm at a party full of people I recognize I think you might be here A person with a phone And a picture on the banquette downstairs Playing an important role i feel i was a web player come alive better than my damp fingers nothing on screen She asks questions in an open forum and sometimes i reply I admit I'm imitating something about a poster torn from a magazine melding with the wood and drywall Of your parents home what did you hope for tonight why did you come here I swallow my swords and pad them out instead This is it This is living This is the party

I approached her not in the mood to cultivate already established relationships I wanted to say things, toss them against the imprecision of my own belonging I blended in with the couch without particularly wanting to That's why you noticed me

You and your boyfriend like to have sex in the park by the river in that wholesome gay way Your life seems abundant with love even as you speak of your losses I speak of mine and they steal the abundance of our conversation Staring at me from your perch across the circle Without particularly wanting to I let our connection begin

What I Like About Working On Computers In Mid-Twentieth Century England

The noisy chug and churn of the machines,
The methodology,
Moving between the machines,
It is its own dance.

The camaraderie.
We are women in our own dance.
The air is full with the machines.
Full with our bodies,
Our armpits and breasts,
Our steady chug and churn.

Outsiders don't know
They are not involved
in the conversation.
Machine and human.

When I leave,
The work subsides in my interior.
When we return, we once again subside.
Taken up in the punch and clack,
Roaring on.

The machines are kept on
To ensure that they remain stable.
In a sense, it is like part of me is always there.

I go home,
Maybe make myself a rationed dinner,
Maybe tap my fingers on a polished table.
Read the newspaper, drink tea, sleep.


Leeds (Revision)

I was a collapsed barn
All you saw were the wisps of bent hay
floating around my temples
making it hard to see

my temples
turned patient in their sockets
while sentimental gossips poked them back ahead

that summer, sulking
suffocating in the laboring sun

pointing and deliberate
the grasses wept
from another point of view it all looked soft

Crickets are another man's silence
The old boards have nails in them, so put your shoes on
This treasure is only plastic from the seventies
This emerald is only a wet stone


Banging my hollow chest from bed

Why did I decide to become a pop star?
Why did I decide to not be sad?

Sad is my cadence
It hurts people

I can see it as a color that absorbs all others
I can see it as a unit ocean


A mouse eats an ant and becomes a kitten
A cat eats a mouse and becomes a dog


In the morning hour nothing needs to be done.
I'd be sitting with my pen poised,
pipe in hand-
Mother and Father to the Orphan
If she were emancipated
instead of abandoned.

and my furniture is second hand.
The mourning doves assert their soliloquy for infant light
Every morning is their first

Patchouli and its siblings drift into our hall
Announcing the pride we take
In staying in place.

A man, Tyrone, lived in this apartment
His parents lived here
And Before that, I don't know.
But I have made myself at home in Tyrone's home.
And someone else's daughter's bed.

Supercessions are what keep me here.

Moving body in crowded jubilation
Floating over pain and loss and
like a wing
Covering like a wave
we bleed eternally
Dancing against each other, lost and losing caverns of infinity
With no boundary to be found in space.
Only soft boundaries,
different and repeating,
placed in time.


It was the 90s
We were in a foreign land
I was 8 and you were 5
We ate ice cream every day

We returned
I was 17 and you were 14.

Everything is old here
Do all these other people know each other?

I could hug these stones.
I would throw my body down
on these old stone streets
to feel your pulse again.

Two Years

I am a blank platter.
Free wine, I ate the welcome.
Mad at the bar
Too light, too loud.
Wasted, waiting

A Fresh Start

My mind is very blank.
I want to caress white tiles
To slide my boots

To swallow sterling silver plated trinkets.
There are so many piles.
and gold plated trinkets.

Straining to be upright things.
So many miles of mistakes

Breaking to be organized
It is a sick formation