Based in the bayou. Launched from the levee. Leftovers are we. 







A mosaic of incandescent clutter,

on a plastic table, translucent and diaphanous 

the absence of crumbs and nacreous glue of warm grain 

made glaring by the foam-flecked trails of windex


They are two, and many more between.

Fingernails caressing aluminosilicate, 

predictable orbits across changing surfaces

Gorilla glass filmy and opalescent with 

secretions from the pads of fingers worn and prints eroded.


A date, phoenix dactylifera, a strained effort 

to mend the sutures of an ever-widening fault

He is made of paper, easily pruned and marked upon 

She, a broken gyroscope,

Subject to tried and troubling crucibles. 


Japanese paper lanterns and,

kitchy bottles of soy sauce,

absentmindedly, they move without intention,

the black milk, sweating through white rice.


The diners’ dilemma; 

Dampened salt and uncracked pepper, 

Shrapnel of feed and fabric minefields 

And the worst, the communal isolation; 

Stains on corners of cracked lips unnoticed by one sitting alone,

The veils of mortality, shrouding the air, 

as casual glances remind others of our own pathogenic,



movements across the naked lightbulb until dusk.



Intimacy of the inanimate and narrow, 

yet the brightness by its virtue and villainy, 

summons pixelated eyes- conditioned to seek

moth-blue havens, aquariums of text and image.

An afterbirth---some scribbles

An afterbirth---some scribbles

The Shepherd Verses

The Shepherd Verses