I still lie on my side of the bed.
The dog still curls
in the place she curled
when she curled behind your legs.
Her ears stand up at every sound and
my heart leaps to meet you.
I am aching for the day
I forget to grieve.
The column of moonlight
from the window over the bed
illuminates every speck of dust;
every memory overhead.
Every moment I think of you
is a moment I won’t sleep.
I am aching for the day
I forget to grieve.
I still lie on my side of the bed.
The dog still curls
in the place she curled
when she curled behind your legs.
You were the reason I looked ahead.
Now the future haunts my dreams.
I am aching for the day
I forget to grieve.
Published as lyrics for Cindervoice’s Forget To Grieve single, 2014.
There are many voices
inflected in your own:
every intonation
an echo.
Notes shedding their ashes;
cinders in the throat.
Something long forgotten
now glows.
There are many voices
harnessed through your throat,
remembering their calling—
breath burning.
Every new beginning:
a borrowed melody;
a spark of recollection
opening.
There are many voices
inflected in your own:
every intonation
an echo.
Notes shedding their ashes;
cinders in the throat.
Something long forgotten
now glows.
Published as lyrics for Cindervoice’s Before the Turn LP, 2010.
Bouncing around the light,
space bends and beckons
toward a dark end
with wings become singed.
She flew in through the hallway;
circled twice around the room.
A strange fear did set in,
and she darted to the wall.
Through eyes upon her wings,
she surveyed her locale,
abdomen pressed close to stone,
leaving dusty marks not seen.
Through eyes upon her wings,
she watched as another entered:
a fly possessed of purpose,
unfolding space toward the light.
From her mark upon the wall,
her wings did see a spark:
the fly cascaded downward
in a slight pillar of ash.
The moth clung tighter to her mark
and closed her eyes, averted her gaze
from the center: the irresistible gravity
of the spider in the light.
Published as lyrics for Matt Rosin and the Dead Raven Choir’s Fire Mouth collaborative LP.
He takes a crayon from the jar and draws violence.
He presses the green crayon to
the edge of the paper: a waxy horizon
extends across.
Green goes down; brown comes up.
The walls of the house are erected:
two square windows divided
into quarters and
a rectangle-and-circle door.
The chimney and angled roof
reach upward toward rising,
spiraling smoke.
Brown goes down; blue comes up.
Mommy is drawn with a lightness of hand
that can only be called affection.
Her hair cascades around teary
eyes and frightened mouth. Her blue dress
emerges in angles.
Blues goes down; purple comes up.
A small circle is pressed into the paper
behind Mommy's back. The same
look of fright leaves desperate
indentations in the sheets below.
A mirror in purple,
his body is rooted
in place through shaky lines.
Purple goes down; red comes up,
is pressed hard into the paper.
The monster's face swallows
the page, hair exploding
toward the upper edge; angry eyebrows
over pinpoint eyes that nearly fall
into the fire mouth.
Teeth menace forward as
the crayon's pressure rips
the page, tears
a small hole
at the back of Daddy's throat.
Red goes down.
Yellow comes up, offering
a circle with rays extending:
a huge yellow sun
in the warm
corner, standing witness.
Yellow goes down.
Published as lyrics for Matt Rosin and the Dead Raven Choir’s Fire Mouth collaborative LP.
The dim light
hangs.
I punctuate
silence.
The dark corner
calls.
I choose
a careful path.
The floor is populated:
metal faces cry,
grimace, countenance
the violence of my gait,
clanking
protests;
warnings;
death-cries.
I enter
the heart.
The ceiling is low
at my head.
Brutal steps
ring sharp
in my ears.
Detachment dies in
protests;
warnings;
death-cries.
I choose
a path of return,
for which I am.
I remember
the dead
only through force,
clanks and cries.
What is my alibi?
What is my alibi?
