Three Sisters

Three Sisters

They talk and they
twist memories out
from the aether, spin-
ning them over and
again into new dramas —
three-headed destiny
each one sheds
light; a spotlight
of information. They
are like one mind
thinking over the past
forming opinions,
laughing at long-
forgotten disagreements
finding new ground
to stand on

When I Was Twenty

I read a poem with the line,
when I was twenty,
and I wanted to start a poem,
with the line, when I was twenty. . .
until I soon realized that
when I was twenty, I wasn’t
much different as now, in
my late thirties. Still, with
the same afflictions, the
same passions, the same
arguments in my head.
Mt. Olympus is a little more
real, but the gods just as
fragmented. If I had started
that poem, it would’ve ended
the same way it began. . .


And your body is the harp of your soul,

And it is yours to bring forth sweet music from it or confused sounds.

And the wind and pine combine to whistle a melody, but what of that melody if there were no ear to hear ?

and what is the mind, but the engineer of the body’s will

The above quote: Khalil Gibran from The Prophet pg. 81

Peel the Skin

If when the skin peels away
you bleed orange slices and mango sweat,

then you’ve been spending too much
time with the clouds.

If, however, you find the image
of a snake, or other cold-blooded reptile

you might look in a mirror

to find the septuagenarian you
staring back at you—

this is when the real magic happens!

Where’s Dad (A Trickster Poem)

Where’s dad?
My daughter says,
standing halfway up
the stairs in her snow-
white pajama gown rubbing
the crust from her good-
morning time eyes.
I don’t know, says my
son who’s sitting on
the couch, taking
advantage of my absence
with his head buried in
his phone.

She whines a little and
scurries down the stairs


run and jump on the couch.

I’ve been hiding on
the ceiling, in fact
I am the ceiling, and
roof, draping over them,
suppressing a chuckle.

As the silence lingers, I
cascade down the walls
and become the couch and
floor too. Still,
they don’t know
and the calm

silence scatters like sand in
an ocean of sand, and turns to

I can’t help it,
I know I should tell
them, but they’re
sitting on me, for
god’s sake, they should
know I’m here,
they should know
I’m here. They
should know.

It Could Be Raining/The Myth of the Moderns

It could be
raining, but it’s

not — we both know
this, the squirrel

and I, it’s just the
wind playing the trees.

The ancients of modernity
those genius’ of invention —

they could turn on the
tap with the sound of their voice.

They also believed that
corporations were people

A couple of poems from this morning. Isn’t it funny how we revere the ancients for their closeness with mother nature, and in the next breath snicker at their outlandish belief system. I heard the story of the Andean peoples and the myth of the condor raising the sun. They told of how closely in-tune the people were with the sun and the changes of each passing day. They told a little of the myth of the condor and how apparently it was even believed that if one ate the dried heart of a real-life condor one might gain the birds power. This made me wonder at the stories they’ll tell of us three thousand years from now!

The World’s Dad (Sunhands)

Sometimes I think about wrapping my arms around everyone I see. Give the world a great big hug. Tell you all I’m sorry for not being there, for leaving you stranded, so all alone. But, dad’s here now. I got a little caught up in all that I smote, then I tried to keep you from seeing your mom. I shouldn’t have, she needs you. Sometimes I think about giving everyone I see a big hug. I’m here now; I’ll even be here while you sleep, and when you wake. Hold my hand, we’re crossing the street, the street filled with buzz bombs whirring, but don’t worry, we’ll get through it, we’ll make it to the other side. Sometimes I think, I could be the world’s dad, I’d embrace you with soft eyes, to let you know that you’re accepted. I’m a modern man now, and a modern dad. We all have it in us to give; that could be the power we seek, that could be our value we speak.


Joe Campbell

I had a dream I was walking with Joseph Campbell, down the city street, he said something to me, which now in the foggy remains of memory is only muddled with incoherence (because it wasn’t important). We continued walking, saying nothing. Building construction clangs and the workers clamor. I thought (in my dream) here I am walking with the preeminent mythologist and philosopher of our time, and we walk in silence, what’s wrong with me?

Nothing, it turns out, silence is transmission and images say more than words. He was much taller than me, same with the buildings under construction. The noise drowned out any words I might speak. And the occasion had me feeling small and reduced; insignificant.

And then I wake up, and forget what it was all about (determined to do it all over again). Energy rising, like the distant train rumbling through my chest and reverberating through bone and aura.


As soon as I try to infuse a line
With meter and rhyme,
I’ve murdered it.
As soon as I try to gain
Through knowledge what I already
Instinctively know,
I’ve lost it.
Soon I’ll give up everything
For this poetry,
It’ll drive me to ruin
And I would gladly accept it
With my hand out, waiting
For the next line.