Tuesday, April 11, 2017

rough draft

we are evidence of old magic
bodies are an ancient language
some of us are still alive
we are endurance artists
the brightest are the darkest
rainbows are broken light too
the oracles are convulsing
the dead are near
even the saints are fucked up
certainty is rooted in terror
some lies are honest
we are what we deny
we are enchanted pain
small tragedies are easier to grieve
black magic is self-harm
all of these are spells
we are the only animals who think there’s something better
we are fighting the sky
we are forbidden books that must be read in the night
we are fugitive clouds, destined to rain

Medical Sonnet #8

art by René Milot

Hear ye, humble followers: my image shall be held on high! 
Neglect hath shrunk my heart, a weight 
that moors us to the blackest sea, while I apply 
a golden gilt that fashions an alluring bait.
Depth of sight I haveth not, and thus I do collect
façades that shineth hugely brighte;
my biggest mirror is a wall, unfairest
since I needeth not to contemplate nor self-reflect.
I grant to ye my gravity from such tremendous heights.
What’s slick as oil causes falls, embarrassed
from the tower’s suite
(no room for anyone but me, for I, of course, am self-replete).
Revolve around me like the sonne! I’m just as full of gas—
I lighte the way by leading with my egocentric ass.

Sunday, February 5, 2017

The Tale of the Sky and the Sea












The sky is meant to lie against the sea
Every night line between them disappears 

The sea is always wet for the sky
The sky is covered in signs

The sea sobs its ecstasies
The sky beholds it all

The sea conceives of everything
The sky withholds its beholding

The sea spills over the lip of your cup
The sky can always see in

The sky does not need a mirror
The sea sits still just in case

The sea comes in long lines
The sky opens like legs

The sea is prone to lunacy
The sky provides the moon

The sea is always pregnant
The sky delivers us all

The sea spits out all glittering things
The sky inhales your last breath

Medical Sonnet #7






















In winter’s hoar, thy absence leaves me chilled
with fitful feelings tugging at my breast.
Uneasy, restless, desperate to be filled,
A breathless, longing woe: I must redress.
Spring wakes me from below, and insects stir.
A thousand spiders hang upon their thread,
While I dangle from the open sky, in turn,
by a solitary sigh of whispered dread.
Now the grasses blow in summer’s seething,
A gasping roused and kindled by the night.
Yes, summer is a time of heavy breathing,
Yet something also keeps it very light.
Autumn does a strip-tease, leaves are falling.
Desperation suits me not, I’m on my knees.
I beg for inspiration; now I’m crawling,
While waiting to exhale without a wheeze.
___
art by Miles Aldridge

Friday, January 6, 2017

dictum


all artistry is an act of translation
beauty is not fleeting
silence is a form of generosity
lace is a woman’s web
the best magic is restraint
time is a graceful suicide
confusion is fertile ground
mystery is not fragile
a kiss is a portal
chemistry is not love
home is where the art is
absence is a form of presence
naming is an act of recognition
the discipline of love is not passive
people are not meant to be solved
the sky is a matter of fact
earth is a revolving door
the silver lining is torn
levity is rebellion
cremation is a cure
heartbreak is trending
the break is the blossom
the best pedestal is the floor
love is a war you will lose

(science is magical realism
romance is generally haunted
infinity is none of your business
my therapist is out of her league
this dream is getting long
unmasking is a patient skill
most of this is nonsense)























You make me hard
Pressed to go about my day
Want to pin you to the wall
Like a thangka, 
Still wet when you touch it
Made for the altar
Meant to be worshipped
(In a way)
Like the View
From my knees

Saturday, November 5, 2016

Medical Sonnet #5

illustration by Racquel Aparicio



















Into the earthy realm we come, with friction as our gate
to don ill-fitting garments that our forebears did create.
But some unlucky soles, it seems, who would have worn too thin,
Become overly hardened here for want of thicker skin.
Still others look to chemicals, as though we can escape.
Alas, there is no exit when we’re circular in shape.
And even when we do dissolve, are peeled up from our flesh,
We may decide to start again, in agony, refreshed.
Physicians in white coats advise to take in fresher air,
In padded rooms with wider berths, perhaps, while we repair.
Still, pressure from all sides can mount when trouble is afoot.
Our suffering is certain, and we can’t give it the boot.
Yes, misery is guaranteed; we run on solar pain,
and sometimes it is doubled, when we go against the grain.