This is one of those poems that unexpectedly worked out. What I was trying for, didn’t happen, but when I gave up precision, this unexpected thing appeared, and I happened to like it. Sometimes, I guess you have to go with what happens to be working at the time.

Love Song for a Scientist

You Fractal milky way dust,
inverse, invert
and peel
Unfurl the night
the most electro-green

with your beaming body
And your 2 blue bird eyes, 2 alabaster arms,
and eight dimensions
(its enough to strap me frayed)

So you know now where you can start
(where ever you would like)

Manipulate math and physics
and put time in its place
by that I mean:
forget it

My wide eyed Blonde
British Short-Haired Kitten

Incorrigible, Undeniable, Undefinable
Just plain able?

I’d rather give you Whitman, Robert Hass, Dora Malech,
David Jauss, and
ee cummings, not me

But who the hell cares about poets
you don’t know?

What I’m talking about is
what I see compacted, you,
onto this

Let me,
for just one moment,
stand outside of time
and “kiss you

And let me, oh you universe,
just once embrace “the words
so silent
they echo what can’t be said”

And let me
for once
ask you
Do you know
what I mean?

Spring Poem

I really ought to put out more than two or three poems that I feel like sharing per year, but anyhow, here is one from last spring.

Late comes the warmth

with dedication to my mom

The world feels so much more than open when its spring;
not cozy bunkered-down and woolen blankets
but open doors to the streets, breezes, secrets and sounds

Peeling jocularity rises up from the streets themselves
as small soles reach out to clasp syrupy pavement
Assuredly, when its spring, the seers are the children,
and sloppy sweet affections abound

Of the lovers and their dew covered bodies,
in their beds with the sheets, wisping around
to the second daylight of a new moon

Of the mothers, their supreme strength
and atrocious beauty,
draped in soft morning gown

Of the fathers, filtering this joy
as health to their bodies,
arms outstretched and bursting

I ask you kings
what kingdoms have you built
with this peace and these sounds?

Your blustering boulders
beating battlements
down, but not my spring

The slow push voluptuous, gooey
earth submits, ramparts nervous
in their doom
vectors of dread and steadiness,
destined love! for it claims its right as
vehemently as any other

What have you to say
to this that would
convince me, invigorate me
for your cause?

I see nothing.

Happy Easter!


Out Pops Poetry

Dear Readers,

I keep trying to push well thought out, well researched essays from my body. Instead, poetry keeps oozing its way out of my orifices.

My apologies – I can’t help it. Maybe I’m sick?

And if I’m not, I blame my recent lack of interest in becoming a better writer and all around entertaining and informative blogger on getting an actual job. Is it my fault that whomever was holding the monetary reward carrot slipped up and actually gave me a bite? (For those of you that don’t like carrots, you should try my saute with balsamic reduction. Carrots will never be the same).

Anyways, enjoy a poem; next week you are likely going to endure a lecture on capitalism and economics admixed with tidbits of information on post-traumatic stress disorder and pap-smears. You’ll be begging for poetry by the time I’m done with you. (Or wasting your time doing something else…).

Communication Theorem

Must one always
guess at what you want

Standing diminutive
before the blankness of the blackboard
being intimidated
by space

feeling as if I could crawl into its vastness
but never inhabit the two lines
of code or the stringing mathematical algorithm
that dribbles out in front of me

I am not here
I am inanition
Occupying the dense vastness between particles
Wishing, that somewhere, we might connect


In celebration…

…of my second week as a unprofessional and fairly unproductive blogger, I give you, my audience of two, a poem. Chances are you have heard this poem, but I promised myself I would update this once a week. This is in dedication to all those inspiring people both in and around my life.


All Acoustic (You)

You are All American Acoustic Alliteration


Vermillion flash fashion


Upon particularly pronounced Strikings

Of the plectrum

on the guitar,

of the music that surrounds us.


As if, Beating beautifully,

Strenuously to bits,

Flecking golden metallic chips

Allows rhythm to achieve soul.


Your cadence presently collapses


The all encompassing solo.



“Poor language, poor theory of language…” Robert Hass

Standing in the middle of a lingerie store, being bared down upon by the ever so judgmental eyes of the statuesque, Greek god sized models plastered across every visible realm – this isn’t fun. But I’ll do it. I’ll do it for my mom. Yeah, its not anything I’ll ever admit while I am in the land of panties and bras – “Hi! I’m here to shop for my mom!” – but she likes pajamas, has adored receiving them from my sister and I since I was at least 10.

“Do any of these choices fit your taste?” the sales-associate inquires from behind a stack of pj’s.

“I need to call my consort.”

My consort?! She is unquestionably tall – poignant with sharp edges both in dress and bone structure and these amazingly soft eyes. From the way she blinks and backs away, I feel like I just said something racy about a delicate piece of art. Never mind that I don’t usually eschew stodgy language in day to day life (OK, maybe I do)  – what is important to me is the word sounds racy. Connotation is all I need right now; the air is filled with it!

I’m frantically smiling, hoping she will go away (and the exact definition of what I just said will surface to the top of my reasonable frontal lobe). It sounds like consult…. that means to ask advice of, but the definition reminds me of another not so benign word: solicit. “The prostitute solicited the police officer.” Oh. My. God! Did I just tell the elf from Middle Earth that I need to call my standing prostitute.

Well, no. I didn’t. But it does turn out that consort has, as an available definition, wife or husband – especially a royal wife or husband. Which seems quite fitting; I very well could have been calling the women at whose feet I worship every night and morning and most of the time in between when I am not worrying about something very possibly inane.

And if I do seem to worry about inane things, let me regale you with my world view. I believe that most conflicts, including wars, are the product of massively bad communications. Similarly, I think, on a personal level, most offenses derive from some awkward thing I have spouted without checking myself. I swear, sometimes I feel like I have Aspergers.

As humans, we estimate the safety rating of a person by the way they communicate. If a person communicates within the normal limits (a wonderfully cold term I learned in my study of pathology), they are assumed to act within the normal limits (of society) and are thereby safe.

Now this safety rating is no crash test dummy in a car careening towards a white wall with a yellow and black strip, but its the best thing we have. And as one women told me, any strange man approaching a women has the onus of proving he is not a weirdo, a space alien, or, even…. a rapist.