 My poetry has appeared in a handful of literary journals, including CrossConnect, Epicenter, RiverSedge, the South Carolina Review, the Squaw Valley Review, and the Wisconsin Review. I am the author of Wine Songs, Vinegar Verses and Spring’s Fall (Autumn Numbers, Book I). I am also an alumnus of the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley. THE MOST MISTAKEN Stan called it an accident of God-- “the Most Mistaken Revelation”—this enhanced determination to subject one’s enemies to Love, to release judgment and to forgive their trespasses as they trespass on the correct way to grasp and to love. “The Eleventh Commandment. It’s perverse. A one doesn’t fit inside a one,” Stan contended as he stripped down and strapped on his vest of many favors: bulletproof, fireproof, and a flotation device. It covered an array. But it couldn’t delay the inevitable. “Past time to put what’s right right. Even the odd.” And thus Stan began his war with and for his God, saving Him, correcting Him, by sacrificing himself as he set out for his job, maintaining the water park, at dawn on the day devoted to Pride. WHAT MORE IS THERE TO SAY? It could not be worse than when he answered “Favorite fictional character?” with “Myself,” later adding “God,” and “Satan”—an odd conflation of artistic cons, some called it. The Artist who purposely limits potential influences simply to achieve a pure and surely limited audience may get a side effect for his cause: apple-saucy applause, rustling leaves. So many years without one date can force one’s mind to feed on more than memories when making queries of history, carried and left to be parried by future myth-makers tracking their way back to ruin, then (maybe) reinvent. “The only fact to leave those not yet born is a warning: ‘The greatest trick Love, hustling, might play is to make would-be lovers believe It doesn’t exist, save as a joke, a gas, the ghost of a pact between deities who divorced on an orchard’s stage.’ “Can you imagine a situation where the population regards Love as nothing more than a minor character in a fantasy?” TO BREAK A WORLD Mary, mirror your lover’s error; pass the lipless kiss, Word without letters, to flow, sowing waves—no sound, dry witness, no bounds-- Imagine the blue mute Singer, her green seeds growing a dirty ditty in all willing and open to cut the immaculate but immaterial cords.
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