Into this Autumnal Equinox

This rain may mute
the full moon tonight,
may turn my thoughts to wet

brain, incurable
delusion, doubt, immobility.
I cannot blame

those clouds or any weather
pattern for this disease
of selfish, vicious obsession. It fights

back by sitting in wait
to rot my body—power
greater than myself. I won’t decay

today, will walk into spitting
wind to become present
inside a drop of cannot know.

Do You Know

Perfect storm
of sadness perfect sky
perfect color apple perfect collapse

perfect moon
perfect agony perfect love perfect slow
suicide perfect rescue

perfect disease
perfect song perfect hell perfect
emotion—who’s to say when

it’s been reached.

No Ginger

“I stand on my head on Desolation Peak
And see that the world is hanging
Into an ocean of endless space.”
—Jack Kerouac, from the 1st Chorus of “Desolation Blues” (Book of Blues

Prone to motion sickness, I’ve looked
for adjustments. How to encounter the rolls
and curves without losing myself
when I have a suspicion 

I should do just that. How to
accept this condition, this disease
of being human without
somersaulting over the bluff. How to drop 

everything I battle gravity
over to let stillness in the center
of a wild wind be my single garment.  How to be
a mammal without a thick coat 

of fur. How to be upright
on two leathered feet. How? Like this:

 I’ll let the blood rush
to my head without blushing.

Aphasic (Day 2,773)

Numb’s the word.
Just past summer 

solstice, no rain, muck
blows off 

as a dusty burst
of thoughts you may have—but 

they will remain trapped
in a cephalic void. The conversation 

is over.
I’m not ready. 

My jaw aches
from clenching 

teeth against the cruelty
of your disease. Look out, 

I can’t predict when
or where I’ll bite.


She wants to scream
into another night she won’t enter—
let there be no more day ones,
let this fear dissolve 

with chalk on a sidewalk
in the rain
to keep this disease quiet
straight on till morning. 

So many conditions to be met
after dark. She pretends to be a stranger
when a drunken shadow approaches—
it’s the only thing left to do.

Sycamore (Day 1,353)

In the throes
of my intention
disorder, I forget
your name, how to reach
the top of you, how to
let go of those limbs 

you wave over me.
In these fits, the stories
I tell are not mine
except when they are.
That I come from ash,
that my mother left me 

in the rain
without a skeleton
shelter, that I still
eat dirt (raw not baked)—
these are some of the ones
I intend to qualify 

when I no longer suffer
from disease over the way
jacks wish to cut you down.