No Light – Default World Collection

There’s a sink whole
in my chest.
I smell pool water.
A colorful snake creeps up–
its teeth deep
in my brain stem.

I lose you every day.
Your face
molds my vision.
What you left,
coins of the material world,
haunt me,
just like you.

Which step am I on?
the unproductive nature
of my grief
stumbling around,
feeling for life,
the quietest
space in the world,
a hollowness,
a vacancy-

No light,
no light at all.

The space sucks it up,
the sound of blood
drowns out the birds,

and the gray
has become
my ancestor.

A Dance

The cajoling is divine.
And I walk on hands and knees:
eating grass,
sighing deeply,
back exposed.

Waiting for a weight,
a boulder of granite,
an anvil of muscle,
a mass of heavy moss
musky with Earthly roots.

The soul,
the flash of the nonhuman,
slinks into a revelry,
in the sun that glints
off your teeth.

A cavernous aroma
sweeping silently
across my stuttered sleep.

When dirt and grime is all you know–
you burn it down,
and play in the ashes.

The transfer of heat and power:

a dance,
a shared drowning,
a memory.

Default Dreaming II

The story of the mad woman,
a classic,
flickers like a film reel
in my head.
Concocted personalities,
they all seem
to be happening
to someone else.

I leave rooms,
ghosted by the air,
and find myself on roofs,
under cars,
and half-naked
in the middle
of parks.
A presence, with its hand
on my shoulder,
gestures like a parent.
I’ve been bad…

But the character is simply
from a book,
fiction and made
out of ink
and bound paper.
She’s written.
And having been written means:
no formal goodbyes.

Default Dreaming

I have begun to worship
empty notebooks,
but have cursed the pens.
I can’t stand all their bleeding.
They are always
and endlessly–
and if it weren’t
for their nature,
their inherent Shakespearean role
they play,
I’d throw them out
But, no.
Instead, they have been burnt with herbs,
buried in the snow,
and locked away
like a long-haired princess.
Her inky locks
over her shoulders:
Lackluster, her pupils deaden
over time.
Her bones worry.

The key is somewhere, I know.

are we but to wait, patiently,
on the galloping muse
and his white horse,

like a small victim?

Dual Fool: A Curse on Memory

Like the pages of a newspaper,
90° and perpendicular
angles fold,
deep creases
form order of content,
such a sound structure.
Oh! The ease with which
one reads them,
then throws the stories
in a smoky hollow
of their mind.
Only to be retrieved so rarely
and yet owing so much in rent.

Let’s cut to the chase:
The uncontrollable
addiction to thinking,
and how it creates
the refraction of body light.
The mind hoax
screaming like a banshee,
“You fell for it again.”

I am in love with
the replay function.

Can’t live with them.
Can’t live with them.

Forgotten syllables
from crowded parties,
silent invitations
to your bed,
rejected nightmares
of floating orbs,
an expansion of the forehead
and of the shrunken ego.

A plural dual fool
I have become:
too many bare edges,
my center uncageable,
and with aura-splitting nausea,
my memory wounds
weep comfrey oil.

Your poetry refuses to die.
The wisps of brain matter,
warp into a fucking vermin trap.

And here’s where a shadow resides,
the gulps of its fingers,
the tingly, wet warmth
of words escaping its mouth
and snaking inward and upward.

I avoid blank pages,
quiet moments,
and empty glasses of liquor.

For when I hear you in those silences,
I abandoned the moment,
so I may sit,
fondle the tendrils
of vapor that slide
through the cracks.
I allow the sickened passages
to widen,
so I may inhale poison gleefully,
leaving behind blanket fire
of heavy want.

I am a snail,
bathing in salt.

Default World Volume II, No. 1

Humanity has been cuckolded,
translucent intentions
cling to their sparkle
like a sea anemone
does to the ocean floor.

But we’ve given in
to the Disney plots
and chorus lines.
Sopping wet with fear,
we’re a rabid species now.

We get off on concussions
and botched nose-jobs,
we break every mirror in the house
with ill-willed flicks of our wrists;
we climax with selfie-sticks.

We’re sick with voyeurism.

It’s going to take more
than a few one-liners,
basement-lit hits
of coke and nicotine,
choking down Hennessey,
shoulder rubs from strangers,
and bad sushi
to forego the eruption:

time is the thread with which
I’ve weaved this dream
and I am slack-lining
the tension

with veins pulsing
with intention
and an ego
the size of Mt. Vesuvius’
holy chant.


Chastise me with EMFs
I’ve been asleep for too long
Fog horns melt into tectonic shrieks
My DNA’s been spliced ten million times

I call for Buddha
I pray to an eight-legged beast

moon-skies split and beget mantras
in all of the languages I never learned to speak

200 years of war
Gods never rise to the occasion
Four generations of genetically-inherited
Fear collecting in the world’s kinetic mud-fields

Egregious tantrums
The Great Mother has swallowed enough

disillusionment and decay
draped in doom
and hollow-hearted
to the mindless drones

I blame the lack of grass beneath my feet
The tangled yo-yo           lying in the gutter


The “default world” is what we call our everyday, normal life. We work, we pay bills, we drive cars not designed as animals and mythical creatures. And we love, we lose, we survive.

Many pieces here are about being in the default world, while the Playa awaits our return…

The air molecules gravitate,
they lock eyes, their
words are breathy,
fearful and less,
and more wrought
with rhythm and blues,
oh so many blues.

It was like the week
I began reading
a collection of odes
to blue.

Page to page,
cover to cover,
left lobe
to right.

“Too much blue
for one woman,”
I had said.

Too much non-blue
for one soul,
guitar riffs
like tongue caresses.
Your ghost,
attached to bars
of music.

I yank my hearing
as if I caught
myself listening
to past records
of oos and ahhs,

coded to your
the length
of your wave,
etched in color: