V Drank a Whole Bottle of Pom

Much like the pomegranate

you contain multitudes.

You laugh in morsels and

to love you is pyrrhic,

for in your hands is panacea

concinnated like pearls on a line.

You’re worth this night and each night —

with straight teeth

you tear apart the pulp of things.

A woman inheriting death

deserves first to taste life.

Sister, On Your Heart

Not even the Earth
has quite so many rooms.
I imagine holding it
firmly in hand
would do damage,
which is perhaps why
few could venture to rip it
from the sky, say,
or drop it whole into
even the softest palm.

His is a solar wind,
your heart the plum:
the blue dot shivering,
and all along it’s known
itself as just another
in the spinning void.
Is it magic, then,
to be held lightly,
freed from darkness,
and flood forever
those rooms with light?

Dedicated to Hannah Williams, on her wedding day 02/08/2020

Short Night Worries (10)

At night, I worry about red algal blooms and the way death follows abrupt darkness. Consider the lithe loggerhead or the polyps of ancient staghorn. What must it be like to surrender to those invading clouds, parched for sunlight?

Cosmology in Her Skin

I now allow myself to write
those velvet throats, those waves of female form,
without discrediting the work
as politic instead of rather than also poetic.

I touch a woman and learn long dead languages, taste her breath and tides pull me under,
where the ocean names my atoms
reminds me all I’d know
if the Earth herself were my politics.

The swamp is my reliquary, and deep within, death and life and death sing across the waters.
She too carries this candor, her body equally unnavigable without submission. I’ve learned this:
How could I see the naked world

and wish it clothed? How could I breathe good air filtered over light years, bequeathed to me by the stars I count beside my lover,

and wish to bottle it? Nothing, not poetry, not politics, will spare me if I cannot spare her.

Dry Tortugas Artist Residency

For the month of September I will be living and working off-the-grid on remote Loggerhead Key with my mother, Beth Williams, a signature member of The Pastel Society of America, as the Dry Tortugas National Park 2019 Artists in Residency!

Our hope is to complete a manuscript for publication consisting of prose, poetry, and pastel and oil paintings all inspired by the Dry Tortugas’ effervescent marine landscape.

Wish us luck, and don’t use straws!

Short Night Worries (8)

At night, I worry about missed connections. It was possible something minutely divine was at play, in the vein of spying the last ripe avocado, or ripping the tag off a new shirt. Life just seemed a little better for the sinfulness. A message here or there, a provocative dream, a craving late at night when they were each alone. If only they knew what was a beginning and what was a detour.

A Letter to The Reader

Hello Reader,

You may be wondering what has brought you here and whether or not you should abandon this corner of the web and dive back into the wormhole of tweeting, blogging, snap chatting, posting, meme-ing, and trolling from which you somehow escaped. I would ask that you allow me a moment of your time, to explain my presence and to entice you to stay and read on.

This is how it starts – one line of text that revolutionizes the way we think, feel, act and react. In all of human history, no technology – no advancement, has made itself felt both beyond this solar system and within our very natures and biology as has the written word – and the limit of it’s scope has not yet been reached.

Here I have and will continue to compile my own contribution to the evolution of language, dropping my grain of sand onto the strands that have been amassed by the ages of writers who came before. I’m a multi-genre writer; I tend to find not one genre or style best fits what needs to be written. If you delve into this blog, you may find poetry, screenwriting, nonfiction or memoir, slam, and vignette. If you venture further you’ll encounter works spanning the real and surreal, classical and experimental, psychological and factual, and some that don’t quite belong anywhere.

Make of it what you will.