Unholy Imaginings

make me a wraith

i stalk my
neighborhood
at nightfall

where spirits
take the form of deer
and move through
parallel pillars
of the oak-lined
suburban sidewalks

i seek them
i beg to belong
i plead

make me a wraith
beyond reproach
not some faded housewife
in a pastel-denim-tiled
suicide nightmare

unconcerned with my existence
the deer sprawl like iron sculptures
on the lawns of perfect brick houses

my black heels rasp
against cement
my slack-mouth
spreads into
a streetlit
smile

some one waits for us

a shutter snaps
from the darkest
stripe of shadow

blurring
what
we claim
to be

seafoam green moss
carpets the ancient
lava field

it is very important
that you never step
on the moss

a rare species
that takes centuries
to grow one centimeter

my clavicles ache
a fine-boned
hollowing bliss

i transform into
a white swan
and twirl to the sky

the land flashing

green
black
yellow

beneath my wings

viking

down by the spires
in ice blue waters
i wait
for the bow
of your longship
to graze the black sand beach

aurora borealis

bathed in bright green tears
the despair of the past year
transmutes into light

two border collies
rest on the hillside
of the old farm

barking
dutiful
but soft
warnings

as i pace up
the black
gravel
driveway

a marmalade barncat
follows me
claws out

hunting
writhing
stretching

until dark
stones stick
to her orange coat

we walk together
in silence

the sheep judge
the swans sob
and horses
remain aloof

i suspect
they have
done this
eternally

more ancient
and intangible
than the
volcanic mountains
in the purpled distance

for i
touched
their
angles
this
morning

Keflavik at Dawn, Post Dissolution

i once read
crossing an ocean
divests you from
any source of
heartache
that remains
on the far shore

south of
the airport
a modern
aluminum
footbridge
spans two
continents

both sides
are sulfuric
lava-rock
wastelands

i step across the metal planks
hovering above the black scar
of diverging tectonic plates

giddy, shaky
sleep-deprived
i do not know what
i expect to find
on the other end

i once read
that the universe
and all its energy
are an eternal loop:

growth
equlibrium
decline
dissolution
growth

i am part of it all
in old leather boots
gazing down
from a bridge
into nothing

Ölfusá River

in raw, glacial streams
nature rinses her paint brush
lead-gray water swirls

The Skeptical Flock

all animals judge!
people who think otherwise
are delusional

This is a poetic self portrait of my soul just before a long journey.

The photo portrait is me in my favorite room of my new house. The dramatic morning sunlight reflects off of my car window and into my sleazy 1970s den.

The words and image both tell the same story: stay weird and get the hell out of your comfort zone.

Iceland, I’ll see you soon.

I will write more when I get back!

Much love to you, as always.

iceland

land of ice
and fermented
shark meat

shatter
my skewed
perceptions

fill my mind
with words
not yet invented

free my heart
to blaze against
the magnetosphere

scatter these dreams
in lands of green
and glacier

we explore a disused cemetery
off an old dirt road
in the middle of the forest

four graves are
clearly outlined
by protruding burial mounds
several others sink down
into rectangular pits of decay

slanted crosses slice
into granite headstones

you step back
to line up a shot
and your heel
makes a hollow
wooden THUNK
you tap again
and arch your eyebrow
– a casket
thinly shrouded
by soil

i step swiftly
over several MCMAHONS
to more solid ground
while you snap a photo

a moth
unsteadily
flutters
against cold
raindrops
and i shiver

not from fear of
falling into old graves
but in reverence
of death’s
advancing
tread

a wildflower-lined path
leads to a dark forest
specked with sandstone remnants
of crumbling mountains

all senses are muffled
beneath dense pines

mushrooms, moss, and needles
cover the loamy floor

fiddle-leaved fern fronds
ache towards muted sunlight

i used to
climb these rocks
and pretend they were battleships
wrap myself
in the lonely folds of the hills
blunt my pain
against the geologic scale of time

i can still show you
where black salamanders
and neon-orange newts hide
where spring starts last
and winter dies the slowest

i can show you a heaven
that soothes an ancient soul
if you know where to look
if i wish to be seen
if i choose for you to find me

i had three two-step partners:
a shy man who fled
a salsa dancer who salsa’d
and a tall cowboy

the cowboy and i talked a long while
about marrying too young
dostoevsky and st. petersburg
and why the texas sky
seems bigger than ohio’s

and oh how we danced!

fast fast
s l o w s l o w

we twirled
in the glitter
of forced intimacy
known only in honky-tonks

he asked to come back to my hotel
for just one night
so he could read “white nights”
and make me waffles

don’t take it too bad,
i just came to dance
but i like a man who
gracefully accepts rejection

fast fast
s l o w s l o w

labrador retriever at 3:23 AM

the dog whines to go outside
i walk slow from my bedroom
down the steep steps
and he clumsily follows

“don’t knock me down
the goddamn stairs!”
i stage whisper
– he snorts

we emerge
into crisp Cleveland
he relieves himself
on the hydrangea bush

amber streetlights
illuminate the leaves
splaying patterns
across my pale limbs

cool air carries
close scents:
hot piss
a distant skunk

he smells the wind
and comes back inside
to drink water like a moose

my mind seeks
the gentle tones
of human voices
rustling in the treetops

i whisper back
to the breeze
“Stan’s a good boy”
and pet his velvet ears

he is already asleep
unfathomably peaceful
a cozy, rounded-corner
of blackness