Driving past the light
Of hearth and home
You think of hopes
Hung on trees
Long since dead.

You fought in many
Biweekly garland wars
And hoped most days
They'd subside 
That the sacrifice 
Made the flowers grow
And they did
 Smell so sweet
And you learned about peace.

Farther still in the distance
You recall the last best hope 
Of your past life
She held your secret.
You held onto her 
Like a crucifix.
And some say
 She set you free.

You see now dead trees.
They grow mushrooms
House birds
And feed many things
You see now fertile ground
And a broken branch in the mire
Preserved forevermore.

Sitting by the dry creek bed,
When the wind gathers the willow seeds,
And scatters the blessed fluff,
Am I made of stronger stuff?

I smell the iron some mornings,
As a drop rolls down my chin.
Is it smooth enough?
And am I made of stronger stuff?

The oak cracks and creaks,
And the shell shatters underfoot.
I wonder these long weeks,
Am I made of stronger stuff?

The mussel makes the pearl
And would it shine the same,
Buried in another lake or stream?
I sleep assured of dreams.

“And thus the legend runs- I Justice am,
And I will bring the hero home again, 
To hold once more her place in this town”

Arise Yukon Cornelia
And taste the prospect 
Of waking after anesthesia

When Christmas is over forever
And no more twisted epiphanies
Rend themselves together

Not a stone, but a mouse
Will stand on a stone
At the western white house

As beavers tear out
Our concrete channels
And turn on the spout.

You'll hear no boosted bass
Or school or church bells
But we'll have left a trace.

Burnt out mixed-use buildings
And the foundations of mcmansions alike
Are again nests and dwellings.

Between you and me,
Each channeled stream,
And the Bridgeford rolls factory,

I think I may survive to meet thee.
By hook and certainly by crook
And perhaps on bended knee,

Through the jaws of the coyote
The urban heat island effect,
And the stars I can hardly see.

By specialist bees,
Old oak trees,
And the deepest blue I see,
I swear I will save 
ALL my pretty pink ribbons
For thee.

okay I hate Jordan Peterson,
and maybe it's just that little Y chromosome
raging at the dying of the light,
but I feel a need to dive into the belly of the Beast and rescue my father from the Dragon.

maybe it's because I have the nagging feeling
that just like Simba or Oedipus,
when you run from your past,
you are in fact consumed by it,
and prophecies come true.

the jeweler knows the use of ashes,
and I want to too.
maybe it's okay to both bless and curse
the stars I was born under.
could I be born under any other?

Waking up from the lifelong dirge for the woman who never was,

Seeing instead a glimmer of the girl who showed herself,

Before men were men and women were women, 

And tried honeysuckle off the fence at the back of the schoolyard,

And played pretend under the tree that she was blond like the others,

The woman that is may cry a bit for her missing years in-between,

But never forget to shake the dust off her memories of the girl that was.

She crawls slowly from the hills and throws herself into the ocean,
Love moves her relentlessly in slow motion.
And she rises again the next day.

The world has entered into the age of her,
And she smells like Douglas fir,
But I wear her ornaments proudly.

She grows white roses for her purity,
the thorns for her lust, 
And the wild ones because she must.

She is more precious than rubies,
And her steps take hold on hell.
If this poem was about her, 
she'd be able to tell.

Dear Lord,
Who made me the way I am,
For some reason.

Bless me in this act,
Of co- creation with you.
Separate the parts of my past,
That only serve to harm,
And cleave them from my future,
Abundant in you.

Make your house a refuge for all peoples,
A shelter from the storms within and without,
And bless us with the hope and wonder of small children,
As we have been born again.
Amen.

Fuck you and John Wayne Airport and “God’s house”
He never would lived there anyway

Can I tell myself in this shadow that
There in this Cupid's paegent 
There lies no monster?

“There is no tiger”
Is a great tattoo and I'm glad it works
For you who isn't quite as delicious 

I tell myself I'm being too precious 
And on the days that wrap themselves 
In the pink cashmere warmth of the other 
I can almost tell myself that 
there is nothing monstrous neither.

In the hearts of those next to me
In those tables of numbers I hope to climb
Nor in those little boxes I help decorate

And the the thing is I honestly like the floor tiles
And the little shops 
And many other things at this airport
And even some of those people 
From the house on the hill

And if I could just pull this one temple down
And pull something else up
Then maybe I could rise
And I would have children to tell sweet lies
And be the house I needed 

We were the cinnamon in the brew,
The ones they were looking for
In the long lists they threw
Unknowingly in our faces.

We changed the flavor of the whole,
And knew it tasted true
As they told us our roles,
Only the ones that they knew.

Now some of us looked back,
But those who followed the track,
Were licked by the flames,
But felt no eternal chains.