Saturday, May 21, 2011


You might think it’d be easy,
but to do it well?
Being unwanted is like being a tree in the middle of a highway divider.
Among the fumes and the getting-around.

I’m sure the tree has days of weakness
when it wants to just pick up and go,
eat oil not gas-refuse and water,
be gotten into, and owned by a body, but
some souls are made for photosynthesis.
For making sweet things out of sunlight
and dirty air.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Zephaniah 3:17

I will sing to the singer of my soul,—
I, who dust (once
dust against his name), by his voice was,
by his mouth’s sound became.
I’ll sing to the singer of my soul.
Beautiful he calls me, me who,
if ever pure, headfirst too soon in murky pools
dove, and surfaced to find throat heavy
with mud and thick blood and white pieces of tooth.
And sour
I’ll sing
to the singer of my soul.
My chest was half-empty, half-
full of bitter rivers and cold stones.
He sang and through my ears—somehow;
I don’t know how—formed heart of flesh
and throne of solid gold inside (of me, who,
never pure, once wasn’t, once un-becoming
was), sang himself into my skin,
where water
flowed and blood warm for the first time -
quickening - I’ll sing to the singer of my soul.
From whose lips poured perfect hands
that wash my dirtcold nakedness of feet and touch
my head, declare me clean.
I’ll sing to this mad singer.
Could I keep under my tongue and behind
my teeth the running sweetness streaming
from silver scepter he swings so
well, gently inside me, sending his sounds
out to awaken the hollows
of body his sound formed?

Wednesday, May 4, 2011


trees chase sparking
cells, uprooted
roots free
as leaves to tangle,
big mess
like undone hair
like traffic
running slowly nowhere
I am
much too
here to be doing right
things, can’t
see the forest
see leaves don’t
leave me covered
and twisted
up too


We say in the manner of doings, by which I mean
the words we birth from mouths behave like these
burst from mothers’
bodies. An open-armed interior flings beckoning words.
Shut eyes play pied piper round ditches’ lips.
What is a man? the way he stands? shape
of the wor(l)ds built around him?

Monday, May 2, 2011


I would say that there are traces
of you everywhere,

like manganese
or rust, but it’s more like

you are the ocean which I, still very
much and then much more alive,

am, dissolving, in,
till you contain me and

not the other way around.
Profound, the lack

of incompletion
you contain.


Please don’t talk about
“unfair.” You think being
a nobody is something
serious? Try being
a nothing-but, a justbody
aching for soul.


I feel impermeable here. And safe.
I am God’s daughter-city, the gates of me
quarried from mother-country mine:
pure praise. Praise-gates and walls of salvation:

I, being one with three, am ready for both
drenching oil and being stripped
(for every cup is, each one of the very Lord,
made by the giving hand sweet).

I am impermeable, full of all-
dissolving mystery, this grace-on-tongue
made flesh, contained in mouth to be contained
in me, made mine, my life in hiding deep,
high. And very far away.