Thursday, April 28, 2022

Between Depression and Mania

Light the daffodils that strike me teary,

Spring. Get on with it. I resent your joy.

I won’t cupboard my winter clothes. Each spring

dress that dances down the sidewalk destroys


a mind with delight. Every song is wrong.

These fragrant blossoms and reappearing 

birds aren’t evidence of the earth’s rebirth

but worse: they are earth’s forever birthing.


What can you hold when you’re always giving?

You Icarus me each first equinox.

Get on with it. I can’t prevent your joy,

your light. Your endless day is endless night.

Saturday, April 16, 2022


I glimpse my frayed tether in a friend’s face—
I’m losing time, but the clock's hands are not 
yet amputated. I attempt escape
into everyday faces and side-street 
bars, get lonely cornered and whiskey grinned.
I’m getting thin. Months collapse disordered.
My celestial sunrise writing, winged
and away, lifts me out of endless days.
I’m untethered and confound family.
“A prophet is not without honor, save 
in his own country, and in his own house.”
Outside of time, how can one not be brave?

Friday, March 18, 2022


Crucifying on Tarot's Celtic cross,
the Devil tells me, "Scorpio, you've stung
your head with winged visions from the eyelids
of the dead." A kaleidoscope flutters

terror through me: a blood sun sets on this
evil Calvary, where no mourners wail,
and stock-still leaves on dormant trees hiss,
"Eli, Eli lama sabachthani."

The earth is sound. No veil is torn. The saints
sleep soundly; their graves unborn. I wake
to waking, and wish my waking done. Sleep
escapes me, and I wish my visions done.

Tuesday, March 1, 2022

Michael Weeks

We were sixteen when you died.
When I was seventeen, Stacey Brice 
handed me a paper doll skeleton
that you had cut and buried within 
your Geometry book. Now I’m forty one,
and those paper bones are in this poem, 
atop my shelf, and older than you ever were.