What if tribes are not for you - there is no body political or aquatic in which you fit swim turn -there are no hands but yours no neck no womb no canal no birth but the one in which you drew your first breath unsurrounded by shaman and doula and magic earth offerings instead sterile steel fluorescent lighting strangers sucking snot from your nose through a plastic tube or is that your tribe? Do you have, now listen careful, tribal envy? Do you see what is missing and claim it in your tower? The wise man builds his house upon the rock, the false man on blood. The loyal man cuts his own palm, the terrorist severs the hand of the healer.

Years later, when ill, weave together broken dreams and cry out for belonging. Where’s my tribe? Scream it from your soggy face. When your tear falls if you don’t wipe them, you’re a liar. Stealer of sympathy. Thief thief thief. Look - the oceans are bone dry. The body of water’s a skeleton. The tribeless writhe in the cracked earth, pray for rain, the ancient, the ancestors are full with laughter, irony of amusement. They say You have a body, you have a tribe -

It is your own

As you wished

Just you.

The sky tonight
is pencil shades.
A smudgy thrashing shrine
to the ravishing Selene
who usually arrives
in mediated time.
But the shadows ask
if she might make her entrance tonight
whiplashfast and
smackclapcracked
through the ashen shelter.

The sky tonight
is not quite inky.
Had I taken
the plump part of my fist
and pulled it
across the expanse,
it would have been leaden
heavy with
the newly accumulated charcoal.
Had I ran my thumb
among the clouds,
the moon would have appeared
luminous and exhausted.

​But the sky tonight
needs me not
and my hand,
a whisper itch,
remains at my side.

A good place from irony
and refrigerators: corn fields full 
of contortion witches: up from the dust
and tangle trees sucking from the air:
wind to use for the next hundred years
cantations: a refilling of the spaces:
we'll choke on fate

A litmus test for the screen 
addicted: does the deep hurt your arms?
for how long? can you tread? or suck it up
until shallow waters run within:
use later for lubricant or thirsty children
to replenish stimulation capability:
choke

A dry spell to conjure if you are one
who does not drink: a holy rock: rest
your head holding a sprig of lavender 
for aesthetic affect: pretty martyr:
you're no different:

I woke to a man

In omission

Of my maturity

I said crack your own 

Damn eggs and watched 

Shells drop into the pan 

Too hot for a man’s hand

But the mind is willing

Accepting rather that 

A thing that should not be

Now hides in the scramble silently

Will cut the inside of your mouth

When you enjoy the meal 

I enjoy the scrape

Of cold butter tearing  

Your toast. Rolling under

The knife, refusing to be easy. 

I used to warm the butter

Before the toast. That’s called

Foresight. You don’t know that

I see now you make breakfast

Like telling the truth.

I the sea floor stuck with secrets keep
A sunken heart still yet to be revealed
And eyes that teem with likeness of the deep
That by the salt might injuries be healed

Full of fish bones picked to clean and bare
I've wished to meet the grand expansive swell
I've longed to drown in depths of dark unknown
To hear the waves tide life tide death tide knell

And when the gentle song wash over me
Tide's toll shall ring with quiet coupling news
For I the seafloor evermore shall be
Joined all my sense with sea my soul with you

Je ne m'efface pas
Plutôt un masque


Devient moi
Cela reconte l'état


Des choses dans 
Mon regard:


Des plumes 
Des spectacles limités

In bargaining
With neither devil
Nor terra cotta warrior
All trades belong
To you and you
Know this

I traded my eyesight for silver
Haired testaments to countless
Neglecting
Colanders and condoms

Good judgement’s payment:
Better whiskey
Toasting wit
And poor pockets

We got a mattress
In the middle
Of hospitals, bar tabs,
a bleached bathroom rug,
Jigsaw puzzle pieces,
a stack of harmonicas, and lists
Aside, how
Could we sleep
In that mess?

Remember the amalgams
Of flesh:
Having run all night
Through sticker bushes
I fell a skinned
Tiger
At your feet and trusted
A pair of hands
That weren’t mine

I have no delusions
All trades belong
To me and I
Alone