Inner Child Stuff

No worries. Just a bit dug around in

Like some dry earth garden

Attacked with an unmerciful hoe.

This happened when I realized

That thing I used to say, that I didn’t like kids much

(There was no understanding to be shared?)

Well, an impossible little Jack popped from the box

          When I wound it up:

It turns out the child I didn’t like is me. My inner, to be exacting.

Now what?

No wonder she hardly visits, but has that,

my chip’s right here. Where’s yours?”

We once drew sabres but now poignards suffice

Honed to lethal: set beyond Blood –

I think that’s my liver hanging from hers.

I don’t feel too good.

Hey, listen, I’d a sworn it not to be me

But all this Later, now I look away & wonder.

It’s only that it’s never mattered;

I was so obviously wrong about everything!

First & foremost, about her.

I chose to misinform myself first,

I chose to trust the weight

If I balanced. My sign, too,

First nature to me, now.

I only know the numbers

Not the matters a-weigh

But sudden-like it came off

There stands little between the wound

And continuing on.

I’m seeing myself again, this unnatural self

Who knows no meaning save the cerebral

When she must ought be found waiting in

The confessional of Spirit.

For the first time in years, I’m genuinely frightened

(she knows everything: she was there from the beginning)

My heart tears its reins from the

Tethering tree

Stumbling off

Carrying that unholy girl.

Now what shall I do?

Now where who do I call?

Once everyone knows everything

I’m kind of barnacle embarrassment

Who, seeing this, even knows me?

They would never know my face!

Do I stop then? No, of course not.

Beginnings are all ever given to me

I know little of middles or endings

Most certainly not this one.

God help me.

The child is on her own.


An idea gone material

Reaches for a pen & white paper

Closing not around the plastic

But on the idea

Clasping it in taut fingers

Saying what to say

Until it speaks on its own.

Too soon for me,

I like control…

While Surrender is much more eloquent

Her vocabulary faultless, flawless.


At three years, I pack stuff up & go

I hate the restraints I feel

Like all this time I’ve picked up rocks

Instead of poked at clouds or found feathers

And time’s come to put all those big things down.

Some flash jealous, some disregard, or vanity, or to mediocre flesh

I took no time; but like I said,

She knows everything –

There from the start,

She remembers being human, too

I more remember what things were called.

She’s the hum of the song I sing

With a child’s grace to forgiveness

Caught with you, I am move in the Presence,

In the DNA I was cast,

This you, this me, you wise, brown-eyed,

Braided child

With two sets of eyes since one never was enough.

No wisdom for earthlings; she minded

Herself like a science experiment, full of reactions

Of bromides, quick trips to the interior

When the exterior redlined.

This, that we thought a landscape

Instead a portrait

Most likely, a mirror.

We both don’t want to remember.

We both can’t do much else.

What happens when the

Earth-senses fail?

Like some , yeh, think about it,

About stuff I never even

Thought about; it was more omnipresent than that…

This is harsh, tho. Two at once?

Embellish it now: embroider it now

A black jet-bead ribbon threading the frame

The mourning of what I’ve left of my mortality.

Two senses in the same day?

Lost to some disease I never wanted to get involved in

Especially my sense of smell”

Which I mercilessly mocked my Mother over as she’d none.

“Carol, what does this smell like?”

A dread call from the opened refrigerator

Mother waiting, eyes over her shoulder

Would I come into the kitchen?

Would I dare not?

This is a truly Cosmic Upside!

Knocked me silly: my teeth moved up in my jaws.

My friend said there’s more flavors in New Mexico

Than hot.

Now I think he spoke too soon; seems where I’m goin’.

When Totems Collide


Calendars are fetishes

We wear them for the same reasons

Totems are grounding



Isn’t that the definition of calendars?

Now you wear time on your wrist

How could anything else work?

We hid our power in the creases –

Power now inked upon the skin

“Wearing your heart on your sleeve”

Was less obvious in my day.

Secrecy as currency

Dispensed for display.

UNTITLED – 2/12/22

She lived her life in minutes

While hours thundered by

Sometimes attentive, she slapped flanks to hurry their

Return to pulsing seconds.

We almost galloped ourselves

Until age returned us close enough

To beginnings

To make a study of time worthwhile.


I don’t know if you’ll cause my death

Or if I just will dismount one day,

Handing the reins to some alter-self

What I know is I’ve not been Here before.

The world gone kaleidoscope, & calliope,

Altogether widdershins.

When that Spiral only goes two ways –



I understand why

That card reader

Said the word, “Posthumous”

When I questioned Fame.

My timing began to stagger the 2nd time I broke my right arm.

Repetition never bores a universe.

Destined to “repeat it?”

Or did I just replay it

To see if I’d missed much.


As I was, I folded up even more

Squeezing off fear of death,

Entering that perpendicular



It didn’t happen the next day, though

Actually, a decade went by

Before I unpacked it fully.

Sitting as it was, on the suitcase stand in my room.


We were crowned with living butterflies

Stars winked in eyebrows

Powers transported us with leis

Of lily & frangipani

We rose into that eternal clarity

In full power & reason,

We sailed easily into that divine

So promised.

I’m headed back there now –

Having seen enough here

To know I need to maybe think it out again

Playing “hide & seek in the desert”

Never sequoia, only tumbleweed.


If churches had no doors

would the gods come out among the people?

curious to see how that other half lives

having heard so many bizarre tales.

Each of us would know them differently

disbelief never stopped a god…

would the people discover churches

their lean acoustics

the affinity for sound, the hard benches

bouncing it into distortion.

yet even so, the perfect place for anonymous speaking,

for stealth-level sharing.

some might become coffee houses…or libraries

All the prayers, the dreams of hope & glory

— everyday glory that is —

rising up, scenting the fresh air of ideas.

Would the gods visit other churches?

Ringing a familiar steeple bell as calling card

or wander pastures, playgrounds, parklands?

Who among them would you recognize?

Who among us would they know?