Crescents of tangerine cool nipples

that purse like lips as

O of navel grips its slice &

taut shiny glans raises its

section to the sun, hot through

blue-green leaves of eucalyptus;

tongue slides between citrus & skin,

belly arcs smooth,

teeth release juice bursting

through this moist cavern,

tongue, lapping in slow pulses,

swallows wet open flames.

Thanks to the editors of HOT FLASHES: sexy little stories and poems for including this poem.

Hot Flashes

Left Coast Writers

January 17, 1991: this endless war


January 17, 1991

The day after war begins I
reach to hold, be held
beneath the crescent sliver of waxing snow moon
I feel your chest press   retreat   as we embrace
silken hair weaves through finger-
tips. Men and women die
in a city no longer theirs   no longer
home. Your arms wrap me
as water holds wreathes
and Iraq retaliates,
missiles strike Jerusalem,
ten year old girl cries within the brown
mantis face of her gas mask.
Pressed peach of our cheeks
parts my lips near the tenderness of your neck—
I want to feel
your breath on my tongue
your tongue as I breathe.
And what of those in Baghdad
no warning?

Thank you to the editors of We Speak for Peace and Literary Well/Pozo Literario for first and then reprinting this poem, respectively.

Dark in Light

Dk in Lt

Dark in Light

Wanted to show you the moon
but cruised off the wrong ramp
and wound up in a war zone
where there is no curfew:
men standing solo in the middle of the street
or huddled, talking beneath burned-out lamps;

wanted to show you the soccer moon
but drove down darkened roads with bars
enclosing windows and doors,
barbed wire spiraling a hardware
store and nursery—planks and daisies
out of reach;

wanted you to count the seas
across that haloed orb
but drove alone
through neighborhoods as treeless
as that dog-song moon;
beat-up cars driven
beyond unmarked borders
pulled over by uniforms
with clubs and guns,
jagged tension cutting concrete air;

I want to know who
declared this war of Americans
against Americans:
children peer from sheeted windows,
women hide behind hollow doors,
a man looks up from an empty street,
each of us equal
distance from the sun’s reflective sphere.

Thank you to the editors of Something Like Homesickness and Literary Well/Pozo Literario for, respectively, printing and then reprinting this poem.




After years of losing scores of kernels each time the VCR turned on, the popcorn made a pact that the next group would ensure that none after would go the route of exploding into unprotected starchy balls. In a burst of hot air, white puffs flew out of the kitchen directly at the video unit, through the reprehensible metal trap, until all one hundred and seventy three kernels were tightly packed into the source of their chaotic metamorphosis.

Returning from her room, Sally found the popcorn maker empty so went to the living room where she found her son Jason mesmerized in front of the popcorn-packed Panasonic. Drawing the wrong conclusion, Sally slapped Jason and sent him to bed.

Meanwhile, the popped corn huddled deeper, inadvertently disconnecting two wires, and waited with wide angry mouths for her fingers to enter.

Thank you to the editors of Quick Fiction for first publishing this flash.

Beautiful format, this great publication puts out fantastic flash twice a year:


horse closeup


When you touch me—I am

breath rather than a woman breathing.

One thousand wings, a single beat,

split sky with summer rain.

Breath rather than breathing

fills the empty glass.

Split sky with summer rain

to reveal horses carved in stone.

Fill the empty glass

with wine of roses, lilac, heather;

reveal horses carved in stone

but not hands that formed their symmetry.

With wine of roses, lilac, heather,

toast grass that fractures concrete blocks

but not hands that formed the symmetry

of streets concealing streams.

Toast grass that fractures concrete blocks

beside the woman reaching towards you;

on streets concealing streams

she begs for food, shelter beyond grasp.

There is a woman reaching towards you;

her face is old, possessions few,

as she begs for food, shelter beyond grasp,

and I see you, I see myself within her mask.

Her face is old, possessions few;

she came to laugh—she came to love,

and I see you, I see myself within her mask

reflecting how the earth breathes.

We came to laugh—we came to love;

one thousand wings, a single beat

reflecting how the earth breathes

when you touch me.

~ Thank you to the editors and staff at Screbendi for first publishing this poem.



Three distinct letters,

discrete as whispers
yet stark as sunrise,
stain this park’s
concrete wall.

S insinuates
the dark entrance,
secret from those
but once in, one
snakes along this
sinuous passage

toward E,
which sighs
like a wind-filled
in the fold of a word
so bare
it exposes the language of pores
opening like stomata
along nerve-laden skin,
of tongues probing
tasting moistening unveiling
revealing the voracious
pulse and press of pelvis
even neck, bared
for the thin membrane of skin,
primordial as sound rising
from ancestral marrow
formed of molten rock and sky-filled sea

before X marks the space
within and between.

Thanks to the editors of  HOT FLASHES: sexy little stories and poems for first publishing this poem.

Hot Flashes

Left Coast Writers

Poems, Prose, Photos & the Art of Being Human