The mantra

God, for one minute-

I recieve my communion on my waiting tongue, seeking

perforated sheets like a communion wafer-

God for one minute

relieve me of this burden of desire.

Lusting for a more immersive life.

God for one minute

relieve me of this burden; desire

The incessant chant demanding





Let me just let it happen.

God, for just one minute


Let me be free.

God, whom I do not believe in;

‘God’ as in the cohesive gel of existance

the meaning between the lines

amorphous humor and majesty and coincidence and reason and ridiculousness

the silent knowing of the vast skies-

God relieve me of these humble utterances

My back burner mantra

God relieve me.


You, sprung from streets

and cities of hot seasons redolent

of tar and fetid waterways, river

being a misnomer for these sluggish

grey channels with concrete

banks and chainlink fence scenery-

You didn’t know the smell of the sun,

only chlorine haze and burning

rubber bodied machinery.

I had inhaled it; summer

dreaming sweat stained cool sheets

of faded paisley sun dried

on the line that divided the lilacs

from the hayfield.

The farm! Three years gone

and summer with it- still internally protesting the turn from the highway to town.

I had jumped up to lead you

to secret meadows where does hid their fawns

dappled in sun and wild youth

before I remembered.

It was winter anyway and the barn

to the trees

to the sky

would be uniformly gray.


Spumante foams along the neck of the bottle and flecks our clothes
as the race-worn spittle horses foamed at the iron bits and slathered,

drunk feet dangle from the trunks of Audis that speed celebratory up Chalk Lane
remember being suspended above the churn of steel shod hooves at speed.

Languid ponies loose in paddocks on the Downs serve to reenact the starting line-up,
the day’s winners urged on to glory in a hundred different retold versions.


Shakily, we try out familiar words,

having burnt the bridges that once carried speech

from the island of one man to another.

I knew another language once,

how to tell a love story with my thumb on a bicep

how to say goodbye for now

by not looking back.

I have seen you imagined in your old age
having surmounted everything in between troubled youth
and trembling hands, the memories of a young man’s strength.
When I meet you in these fields again, I know
we will both be young
and fierce, and wild,
having finally cast off this pall of sadness that we’ve needlessly carried
for so damn long.
So I taught you, with a well-aimed rocks glass
that shattered along with whatever lies
I’d told myself about happiness,
how to spit in their faces
and tell them to fuck off, even as they twisted
the knife deeper.


Come back for fixing up when your
black eyes have healed but
you want to be free and wild.
You were born free,
that’s the problem,
everything that’s happened in between.


I have driven until I could see stars,

the florid lights of insomniac apartments and neon strips receding

and slept in the backseat of my car,

remembering what is not mine to keep.

Voyeuristically explored one way streets

populated with ghosts not of my own creating

guilty as a snoop in the house of an absent owner

caught rifling through the drawers.