one foot here

in a brittle reality

one foot in another world

the fluid lapping place

where spirits roam


one hand for the making of bread

the other weaving through the ether

grasping for truth

feeling things not meant to be felt

by mortal hands


let your hair down

singer of spirits

call them to you

shed your clothes

and dance


stamp your feet

on the earth mothers breast

let her feel

your need to be free


shaman girl

mystic woman

speaker dancer soother

the place between two worlds

is your home




he was born in America

land of the free

his mama fed him peanut butter

and bananas


on Sunday she served peaches

from a can


he had a train

that went round

a little town

with little people

and little houses

a church

and an ice cream parlour called



when he got older

he started a band

he played at the State Fair

to a crowd of 1,212

his hair was slicked back

and he wore a white blazer

that night he lost it

to a girl named Judy


his Mama died of cancer

when he was barely a man


he came home

and found Dad

dead in the bed

that’s when he knew

he had to beat it out of there


now he lives in Sydney


and he calls himself a writer

he says

“America, hate it or leave it.”

I say he left

because they did



Morning With Darling


I roll over and kiss

the back of your neck

out of the bed

shuffling through the dark

to put on the kettle

your lunch is in the fridge

because you cooked it last night

I pull out your thermos

and fill it

milky tea

with just a bit of sugar


standing at the kitchen counter

not a word between us

your goodbye kiss

tastes like toast


is what dreams are made of


she gathers it about her

bits of this

and that

flowery words

and dead birds

and things

she pastes them on

like a false mustache

she thinks it makes her clever


she cocks her head

just so

and if you ask her a question

she will take her time answering you

she only uses

round about words

that you will never understand


she likes to be set apart

she says that honesty

is an art form

and she knows it best of all

but really

honesty means lying to yourself

she is some artist

A Round On Me

you want more

more words

I should keep the tap flowing

so your cup will never go empty

and you can gulp me down

every drop

I get thirsty, too

sometimes I would like to sit

and knock a few back

I could shout

“more!  more!”

and slosh your soul

all over the floor


here is a sip

it will have to do for now