readers, lovers, those practiced in the fine art of tolerance:

i am currently crisis, an open-ended re-imagining
constantly forcing divisions by two, that is to say of self,
between star and star — pen kept from reaching the page
and, consequently, you.

i hope you've enjoyed our time together and that we'll do
so again later on if not soon. this is not an end. there is no
destination. all points are possible. if thought of at some 4-
way stop, kindly remember this ghost for all the sheets he
hid behind.


After 5 months of worry
my roundness wasn’t just
too much beer,
the doctor says, No,
It’s not cancer,
Would you like to know the sex?

it’s a goddess,
proclaims the bulge,
then –

At least surgeons can carve out cancer.
At least radiation can nuke malignant bodies
into non-existence;
there’s no way in hell
men with wire coat hangers
can put a scratch on divinity.
It’s coming.

When it bursts,
I have two options;
doctor hands me pale green pamphlet:
“So, You’re Going to be a Poet.”
In fading black toner,
greeting via sympathies
“You have two options,”

Do not name it. Do not nurture it.
Drag its comatose body – weighty
despite all it will starve
from your inattention – behind you
by indelible umbilical cord
for the rest of your life.

Learn to not look back;
accept the growing dead weight
you pull as physical training –
penance, if you wish, but this, too,
is looking back;
assume your clothes heavy from invisible downpour
or woven of some leaden stuff;
convince your legs they are weary from running
towards a finish line
stretched just below horizon’s broad frown.

Flipped calendar pages,
your birthdays,
New Year’s parties
will slowly turn this burden
into process,
deny mirrors – hung, standing, or similarly
maliciously mounted – their power
of looking beyond your own skin.


After you deliver,
do not baby-proof your home;
this ancient goddess,
given new power
by your cells,
needs to learn how to name
with shared tongue
everything you have come to know
without her –
every bruise, cut, shock, and burn
shapes her fingerprint,
her footprint,
in your own deepening voice.

Be prepared to sacrifice comfortable abstracts
for the unforgiving concrete;
she will require constant tribute, sacrifice –
time for facts and fictions
hidden in-between lines of dusty books,
isolationism for inquisitive exchanges
with strangers you never realized could talk,
a decaying park bench, the all outside your windows.

Build a stage around the birth weight you’ll never (want to) shake.
Affix two spotlights to your brow and train their focus.
Bill it puppet show. Bill it shadow theater.
Invite the world to your side;
if it does not come, throw your weight into the world
where it will be most expected.
When you’ve enough confidence or cowardice,
sucker-punch street corners, train car interiors –
anywhere you will be unexpected, unavoidable.

If you grow tired of the solo act,
acquaint and share the goddess
with musicians, with painters, with photographers.
They will buy her distinct dresses,
take her to undiscovered corners,
show her off on their arms –
introduce her to strangers she might run away with;
learn to let go.

Your tight grip will but bruise her temperament;
adopt a loose hand – allow the illusion of escape.
Occasionally, she will run from you.
After she’s out of reach,
arrest your seeking arms before
they lunge, your palms before
they open, your fingers before
they stretch;
she will return.
Her gallivanting means she’s healthy enough to wander;
just imagine what she’ll bring back.
if you want to remember our conversations, they may be purchased
if you want to follow the footprints of a mind running 'round in circles,
be my guest.
if not, i'll leave you my weighty argument: