Wednesday, February 11, 2009


In the crabbed hand
of the madhouse
she scrabbles, faster, faster.

Swollen tides of words
spill down the stem of her pen
and course over the paper.

Turgid black tulips,
dusty stamen,
scattered pollen,
seed nodules
breezy lisp
of ink-filled word -
imbeded by hands
dripping blood rubies -
each a skeleton of regret,
an inheritance.

Words and rubies
spin a crucible of mind.
Feather quills
dipped in chain link,
locked inside the savage,
ripping night.

Only the scratch
of straightjacket lines
paints release,
but the keys
are on the other side of the door.

Sunday, February 08, 2009


days, weeks, months, hours,
clock carousel
we ride