Falling House

The melodramatic mansion

lurches oceanward over the cliff.

Lavish dead

pull the ropes.

The seashore’s children watch

with hope,

eager to be freed of those

patterned windows,

the eyes tuned to the frequency

of geometry.

In the elevator shaft,

a wind separated from the herd.

Prey waiting for pressure.

In the dumbwaiter,

relics of service.

The slippers in the catastrophic

laundry chute

are warmer than they’ve

ever been.

By the old hearth,

music divorced from the


Like a Rumor

Moonlight is braille,

pointed beams patterned for

hands with eyes.


On the prairie,

the hellbent train pierces the cool,

callous night like a needlegun.

The town will loop the gold

through in the morning.


Hands clasped as though to pray,

I cannot read that foreign,

bright light writing

on my cool, white face.


My hands are blind.

But the dark slips into my

ears like a rumor,

the utter loss that is my birthright.



This poem will be revised.


Little screams flutter by

like so much cash at Christmas.

On the cold, creaking merry-go-round,

murder by centripetal force planned.

The walnut trees tsk.

Beneath the candy canes

doing flex time for the traffic lights,

melting slush with

the impression of honesty

imprinted by every boot over the crosswalk.


Diagnostic rock stars

light the pink sickness

on my forehead

with the squeal of a spirochete.

I am sick.

The antibiotics climbed

the mountain

and blew away like ashes

at the top.

Who will I turn to

when the music stops,

perched on one screaming

foot in my box?

The seats in the crowd

are filled with the


On stage, the fully

realized monsters of

scientific sound.

Actualized mindfucks

who are going somewhere

because the conveyor

belt from the stage

runs only for them.

They see through me.

The extra vision in

my head a hammock

supporting the exhaustion

of my pine cone.

I have thoughts of lances,

of silver mercury

waiting for a cog rail

that sleeps.

I will take the mercury,

apply it to my forehead

like Ash Wednesday.

My Easter is on tour

with the band.


The coordinates of my gratitude

are inestimable.

Somewhere on an earth of regret,

a small point of velour gratefulness.

The small seal

of my face

with the veritable scent

of a name

the size of a fall from grace.

Living at the bottom,

the detritus falls like

snow on the blanket

I never bought.

At the right latitude,

where it glides into

an unresponsive longitude,

the gifts given by the one

who burns my name as incense,

his arms draped in velour.

Foreign Language, Primal Sister

The clouds drag over

the prairie to work

in the horse fields.

Rain—an instant sister.

Outside the barn,

the Mandarin language

in a raincoat.

Always the words

wonder where they

will fall when they

drip off the tongue.

My sister floods the plains

as a gift to our ancestors

who wove bicycles on looms.

Instant sister never arising

from good faith,

but falling from certainty,

a meteorological right

I’ll fight for.

In the wind,

Mandarin chatters.

My Story

My story is the decor

in a vault robbed of my

birth certificate.

Painted chapters—

good information about the

berries who influenced me

and the flowers I changed.

Chapter by chapter,

my flag unfurls,

a rainbow stiff in the breeze

on a line that could snap

and cut the sweet planet in half.

The juice will drip into

the hungry mouth

of directionless space.

The epilogue is encased

in purple plastic,

a report with glittering graphs,

sobering statistics.

Fire. Then Water.

The forest clutches

stolen fire

while lightning loses her identity.

We hold onto bad things

and are leveled like

post-tsunami water.

In the forest,

trees in pain –

the communication between

leaf and air severed.

When the grasses and branches

have burned,

the forest repents.

And then the falling

of fallen water.