Monday, December 17, 2007


Underneath my bed I have hidden a chest.

The chest is filled with the curls of my relatives.

There are the curls of my sons.

There are the curls of my nephews.

There are the curls of my cousins.

There are the curls of my granddaughter.

They are carefully clipped curls and they are all almost a uniform color of brown.

Dark brown like the wood of the chest.

I cannot tell the different curls apart sometimes.

They all lie together entangled in some intimate embrace of hair.

They smell clean.

I clip them from my relatives after washing their hair.

I am good at cutting the hair of my relatives.

Their locks close cut hug their round heads.

Their doe brown eyes framed with long lashes.

Their eyes are wise.

But their eyes grow duller with age.

The brilliance of childhood is lost with age.

I have preserved their curls from babyhood.

Those hairs contain wisdom.

When I die I would like to be burned in a pyre made of the curls of my relatives.

I would like to burn in an implosion of that wisdom.

The stink will hover miles.

Friday, December 07, 2007

poem on a shiny silver gum wrapper

gray desolate days the
clock running slower than
swirls of lazy sweet potato water in your plastic stained
bowl your red handled
paintbrush is sodden with
the wetness echoes of

somber tinted air with
out perfume sprays
the long eyelashes of ex
haustion our

december, month of
dulled attempts at
summer's cheer, Xmas
Xmas is almost here, but
our cars are dusty with