The conference of rabbits went as so:

They made a rule that only rabbits were invited.
They lit carrot-scented candles to mark the occasion.
They walked around on two legs sometimes,
a thing only done in like company.
They told jokes only rabbits would get,
and eschewed those using “hare” puns.
Their guest speaker, Peter, gave tips on gardening
and hoe-avoidance.
They called early adjournment,
as everyone was getting
a little



I got enough.
I got all I need.
Got strong legs to hop
Got pointy beak to peck
Got sharp eyes to hunt
and a field full of grubs.

Said the broke-wing raven

Flight’s overrated.
There I was, aloft
and wham
here I am.
Friends up there in the trees
spending all that energy.
Don’t need nobody.
Don’t need no one.

Said the broke-wing raven

It’s all good.
Y’all go on without me.


Worst Friday

I have not been very diligent about posting Easter poems, so here is one from last year.

Deb's Few Words

That one day was a bum deal all around.
Betrayal: check
False accusation: check
Torture: check and check.

Just a few days prior to the Very Worst Day,
The people were excited!
Running around, hosannah-ing right and left,
“Oh Jesus we love you you’re the best”
but soon calling out the name of Barabbas.

The Most Awful Day pressed on.

Even worse than the torture
was a sudden deficit of disciples.

Deny deny deny.

Did he know things were going to go sour
so quickly? All indications are
yes. Still…

As always, it was the women
who showed up, really showed up.
And that one apostle whom Jesus loved.

By then, all that was left was the forgiving
and the dying.

IMG_2258Painting by Robert Valienti-Neighbours

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The Turning

The air feels different today, the light
has turned toward the west.
The soft butter-gold of winter shifts now
to blue, the spectrum opens wider,
the days grow longer.

is bundled like light,
both wave and particle.
Months and years rolling, rolling.
Seconds, minutes falling upon us
with measurable points of contact.

I spent a minute in despair
and my light dimmed to brown.
I spent a second in blind anger
and it faded to black.


I spent a year in learning
and the great field of my soul
went to shades of green
I had never seen.

I spent a month in giving
and my heart’s light glowed

The year turns as I turn,
the light falls upon me to refract
and re-color.
I am clock, I am prism.

This part of me is always free.


So here I sit.
I scarce remember which half is which, but now,
with sure death around some corner
or another corner
(Zeus, there are SO many corners, one like the next,
the only way I distinguish them is by blood marks),
I truly want to know: why?

They come one after the other,
old men, crass youth,
cowards to prove their bravery,
brave men to prove their folly.
Not one survives to tell others of my story –
I try, by the gods. I try.
“Please, please don’t make me kill you! This is NOT my fault!”
I say over and over
(Zeus, I say it so often, the same thing every time,
the only difference being the amount of blood that is spilled).

For all of that,
I know I am damned.
The gods do not care that I was created by their mad brother,
put in a place guaranteed to make me insane,
if not from loneliness and boredom, then by
the useless puzzle of my existence.
(Zeus, I ask again, and then again “why,”
painting my despair on these thousand walls
in the blood of these foolish men).

And now, a thousand corners away,
I hear my death approach, at last.
My blood will make hero of a man.
I will sit, just here,
and welcome it with a bull’s roar,
and a man’s tears.


The Refrigerator Poems, 1999-2000

I wrote these poems in a sort of fevered frenzy over the course of a few weeks in the California wintertime. For obvious reasons, you’ll see many words repeated from piece to piece, due to the constraints of my materials. I don’t believe I edited these before copying them down in a book, besides adding punctuation. It was an interesting time.

recall —
why did she go?
was it when her gowns rusted
and winter would not leave?
he can ache,  cry,
but gone is her smell

an eternity in an egg
a life in a day
moments run together
like milk from the breast
like blood to the sun.

what i mean is
there is no void in death.

the summer storm rips through me
fast and hot
diamond white

lie still, you say

the sky is boiling
with rain
and our sweat.

“stop cooking”
I moan.

luscious meat
languid chocolate
elaborate sausage

I am drunk on produce,
drooling and delirious.

two bare parted legs
placed near his head

“do not sleep.
think of a delicate juice,
like peach,
but less bitter.”

I lie on my milk-white bed
falling into puppy sleep,

no chains
no beatings

just language of pink tongues
and friendly smells.

the rain floods
from a sky
raw like boiled skin.

there is blood in our hair
as we drive,
the road a bared knife
shining with red light.

here is woman
in a suit of rain,
her hair stormy,
her sweat a flood.
“Put me in your  garden,”
she whispers,
“and watch it go mad.”

a thousand fluffy mothers
incubate pink, waxy boys, who,
as men,
rob language of vision
and let love fall beneath lust’s ugly feet,

beat up and screaming.

Take a knife to the cook.

Eggs raw
Meat black
Milk all smelly.

Smear his blood with your fingers
and sing,

“We will not eat your
repulsive sausages!”

Shine easy on me, please.
My skin aches
from its long winter sleep.
And after so still time,
one moon shows a truer light
than a thousand hot suns.

Please do not scream.

See my knife
for a moment
as a shiny diamond gift
for you lovely breast.

The smell of hair and skin,
the language of tongue and fingers,

how we love,
and why,
and above all, the need
to be one
of two —

are these things from the mother
or from the egg?