I am a delirious, cackling witch,
screaming into netherworlds,
and behind closed doors,
into hauntings and the ears
of runaways.
They can’t listen if they’re dead
and dying,
but I can hear the faint beating
of their hearts,
and their resolute moanings,
dripping with immortal songs,
so I keep relishing the sound
of my own voice and the feel
of my own skin.
I don’t know why I
fall apart in your arms
like a trained tiger biting
her master,
while the flattened pine tree glares
at me.  I don’t know why that
tree hates me so much.
It has never even asked me
my name.


What if I were splayed out,
mostly naked,
on your bedroom floor,
my hair creeping off my head
like tentacles,
what would you do?
Ask for an encore?
What if we had fought
and I had died?
Then what?
Would you kiss me back to life
or let me be?
Which would I want?
I’ve no idea.
What if my wrists could run red,
just for a moment,
just to feel what it would look like,
and I gazed up at you
and you ground your keys
into my skull?
Would we find happiness then?
Or just a lull.

tripper gypsy

Don’t speak,
or the world will pop
like a bubble,
like red cherries
on an ice cream cone.
She moves her skirts,
and people watch the
sunlit, wind-woven harmonies
collide with their eyes.
She’ll stay until
she has to go.
Run your fingers through
her hair, long and full of
incense smoke,
down the glittering magic
of her neck and ankles.
Watch her as she runs away,
laugh at her escape,
and know she can’t be
held in your


You are spellbound.
Have I caught you
with my snares and commotions,
loudly clanging the bars
of transatlantic cages
over your heads,
and behind your backs?
It appears that way.
You are caught in my web.
I can feel your lights
flickering on my silk-woven ribbons;
when I pull on them,
you skitter.
I am your goddess,
so Go and Multiply the Earth.
Melt down your souls
so I may
breathe their perfumes from altars.
In the beginning
I create light;
but soon you will see
all the lights
from your sky.


Dear Lord,
The I Am.  That one.
You and your spectral masterpieces
framed as angels-in-waiting,
your Gabriels and the wretched light
that swallowed Job’s children,
and Egypt’s babies.
You, of the gracious genocides,
and loving massacres,
of the ancient tidal waves
and rainbow frights.
I beg you for mercy
only because I know what
you are capable of:
you make the walls
fall down.
You created the heavens
and the earth.
Cancer and
and stillbirths,
boiling alive,
and apathetic parishioners
are yours.
How will we ever save ourselves
from your salvation?