scrawled exponential



with the first conversation

and thus founded by the first words


between two or more

lesser great apes,

ending perhaps

as early as tomorrow

or twenty eight days later,


as cognitive culture

created the space for


and its misses


imagine how skilled at listening

were those early gossipers

taking no grunt for granted

not distracted by a thousand

names in their head

nor disillusioned by tropes

nor fooled by the belches

of a politician,

there was a message to experience

and with the right patience and


a deep understanding would unfold,

a miracle


sharing experience through noise

through full-body gestures

and an eye’s contact

soon we primates were a more powerful

collective soul than we could express

without violence

so we opted for that sort of thing

banding together

pretending that the strength of our connection

with an isolated group of hairless monkeys

was somehow more holy

than that with any other

and faction after faction

after fissure

after valley after peak

in the cultural cartography

of the wise-and-two-legged


scrawled exponential

on the map

of the universe

which we now ignore


insulated now


the reality of other’s

by this same

liberating capacity

which brought us connection

on a wholly-[un]holy level

we sure have come a long way

so far a way

from those fledgling conversations

we may have forever lost

the ability to use the


as the gift it

really is

stone panegyric

death wears so many costumes

but there is really only one homicide

and even that death surpasses legal definition

it is simply, intentionally, taking a life


since we’re still alive, and we never conspired to kill,

i cannot blame her nor myself for this death

we watched our collective life sicken, whither away

and die; we are not murderers


sure, we were always going to be prime suspects

in the eyes of those who prescribe criminal behavior

they’re automatically suspicious

of those who found the dead body


i’ve come to this plot to pay my respects

and to consider this question:

does anything, anyone, pass before its Time?

or is this simply a conciliatory cliche?


we’re so used to playing god, us humans

small wonder she and i longed to resuscitate

the terrifyingly pale corpse

of our once vibrant relationship


a eulogy for a romance seems silly

but this is a real death, the loss of

a tangible, unique life, whose magic

we will never know again


tragic though it seems by modern standards

i watch the Great Mystery carry on, with simply

a passing nod at this minuscule casualty,

quietly certain we will all Rest In Peace


potency may have once been


masked by plentitude and party-tricks

experimentation continues through

currency and curiosity

both of which require nine lives

as neonates and as nobodies

each novel chapter

carries a continuity

which experience I

may dare call


Women’s March (it’s January)

left, right, left, right, left, right,

center. centered.


wishing we could dole out punishment

to not-our-president

lock him in a tower

and call him a princess

just to hear his blood boil

or see him finally let down his hair


left, right, left, right, left, right,

i was born in march

left, right, left, right,

left of center

decidedly moderate


pass the spiritual digestif

chase the feeling

left, right, left, right

no nostalgia for the future

left, right, left, right

these boots are made for stompin’

all over public property

whose streets?

left, right

our streets

left, right

whose windows?

left, right

…their windows


with a feeling

of anti-reconciliation

i cannot meet

the two at once

my wingspan being finite


left, right, left, right

round and round the parade route

chasing your own tail is easy

when you don’t recognize it

as your own

why are you here?

I feel scared, I feel angry

why are you here?

I like an excuse to shut down traffic

why are you here?

The state has finally revealed itself, this is our chance!

why are you here?


oh, you’ve been here all along…

Where have I been?

you ask

worker me

Honey, I’m back home in the hive!

though I admit I have no gift

for the queen


I’ve been hunting for the reproductive organs

of mother earth with which to polenate

my worker-bee spirit


I tasted, selfishly, the sweet nectar of fire,

the syrup of silence, and

freedom’s flower


Returning to the hive was always my intention,

but I have to play tricks on history

and dance forward in time


And now I’m back in the land of the drones,

physically present, socially distant, feeling

the collective buzz


My wings tired, covered in the scum of experience,

I comb through dreams of embellishing my

honey nest and growing pollen of my own

right here, so that leaving is

not such a damned



Why was the heart, with its throbs, aches,

breaks, and other metaphorical palpitations,

the presumed locus of love?

I should think a more fitting personal analogy would

place my heart in my patella,

for they’ve experienced very similar levels

of abuse.

Or why not the brain,

which gets credit for all types of smarts

but not emotional intelligence?

Could love not also live in the lungs,

where expansion and contraction

and absorption of invisible life forces occur

as quickly as a fresh romance, and which

occasionally culminates in breathlessness?

Might love not motivate the legs, that so often reach forward

without explanation beyond their own expectations,

and yet will fail equally unpredictably and

send us crashing to the ground?

Does love dwell in the eyes, so commonly seeking

contact with a complimentary pair?

No? Yes?

Could our number of eyeballs

form the basis for monogamy?

All these could be…


by the heart, which,

sending and receiving with miraculous determination,

is both the question and the inquirer

on a life-long

journey to





Lo! The ground beneath is spent

But acquiring shit is still our bent

Decades digging for metaloid,

gas and crude have left a void

I refer not to holes in the earth

but to our need to label worth

we’ve a new commodity no less fake

called culture,

and unlike coal,

it doesn’t take

a million years to make