These Lightning Fingertips: A Poem


I dreamt once of laying under the strobes of heart

in that dream

the atoms of my body rolled to distant starlights

distant rests


I felt my toes vanish into the electric sparkling

(peace finally after the struggle) and

that silent firework twinkled its way up

my ankles,

my hips


When the dissolve (resolve)

hit my lungs

it took my air and broke it up

when it took my heart

it stole my blood


it hit my eyes and I

gave it my brain


and when finally, finally

I was scattered

across infinity finally, finally

my useless body knew peace

among the starlight


A dream indeed


Supercell: A Poem

The clouds envelop the sky

like a gaping mouth seizing prey

and make the world a subtle shade of dinge

that looks like blue

but is grey,

the lightning cackles from

a place miles from here and

turns the darkness back to day for

a fraction of a second.

I drink in the thunder,

and it fills me down into my toes,

and other parts where the sun rarely touches down

even pouring some of its heavy honey

into my eyes and

bringing out the definition

of the shadows on the pavement and on the leaves.

The low winds whistle on

their journey through the awnings,

leaving a hollow noise

to balance out the ripples

of the raindrops splashing in their own puddles

and the glare of the moon

is blanketed by sheets and sheets of cloud

that fold over and around themselves

like a dance

performed by endless numbers.

This is where I feel at home,

with the rustling noises, and the smell

of things becoming damp then

soaked, with the vision of

quilts of clumsy lace and horizontal

pellets, the feeling

of not knowing, of being

alone and afraid and in a cage and other things that are mysteriously pleasant,

the rolls of rumbling

filling and satisfying

to the last drop.

I am not a torment,

I am a misunderstood wave of love and

in a storm I find

that I am not so lonely in

being the way I am

and so I follow it East

kept warm by comfort

until the light filters back in.

Primavera: A Poem


the keys hang, like they always do,

from the hook on the kitchen wall.

they glitter in the sunlight

let in by the thin gingham curtains,

which flutter in the breeze

let in by the gap under the door.

just outside are the logs

my father chopped this morning

to burn in the winter.

his axe is still deep in the last piece of wood

he added to the pile.


last night i had a dream in which

i heard people shout in agony

and my father holler. this morning,

the dream still haunted me.

my shaky hands spill coffee on the counter.

i think one of the screams

came from a memory,

although i’m not sure which one.


gazing out the window,

i see a growing spot of crimson

beneath the logs.

funny, i didn’t know trees bleed.


the moon is still out,

and the glittering keys are on the opposite side of the glass,

green and numerous, with nothing to unlock

but this secret.

i wonder: A Poem


i wonder,

what is it that makes a horizon so distant?

it’s where the sun sleeps every night

but we can never lay our own heads there.

i wonder when

we’ll be able to feel each other’s fingers

touching each other,

looking out into the orange

at the end of the day, and ask,

why wasn’t the world always like this?

i wish i could point to the people now

who would look at a difference and

beg in their prayers,

why am i different?

i would point to them and say because

our differences make us similar.

i would point to them and with the other hand

take all their hands,

and we would sit along the shore and wonder this:


is the horizon so far away? and

what will it take to swim there?

peace from scratch

despite the obvious human impact


on the world,

where there was once a rolling farm, and a

farmer who made his profits

off this land

and cows and horses that ate the

green grass

that sprung from the most fertile

soil in the world,

there is


cars and bricks and outdoor lights

and swimming pools and child-sized

tables and chairs and

all of these consumer goods which

didn’t even exist back when

the farmer was

farming here.

despite all this, there

is a gentle wind tousling my hair


an okay-sized garden i can look at



which are silhouetted by the

running rainbow of the

fleeing sun.

and despite the visible loss

of what was once pure,

and despite the depressing thoughts

that i can see with my eyes

of more terrible things to come,

despite all this,

i am at peace.