All the Atoms

A poem.

There isn’t one particle of anything ever in this

outstanding universe that wasn’t touched by the hand of God and in His mercy

He has seen fit to take crude flesh and place it here where It can

Be in this warmth and

Soak in this sun and

80 degrees in January yes

God even saw fit to make LA to

Put these people here in this tortured geography and hope they’ll do their best but

Some of them are evil and

Some of them are magnificent and

Some of them are angels and

This is their city and

They run this town

On the down low

Any support, in shares or donations, is appreciated.


A poem on the edge of a new year

Upon the Board

Expectation in suspension

This is the hovering, the inhalation

The sips of certainty drowned by torrents of wonder

How impervious now to failure we think we are

Surely this will be executed with no splash

A pike, a double twist, and abundant prayer

Fervent at every breath of every waking moment

And catching in the apnea of evening during precious minutes of sleep

A longing moan for More of the Lord Our God

Fill the spaces scourged of joy

Smooth the scars jagged and wary

Grant us peace in our day and

In thy mercy keep us free from sin

Except the mild ones we crave

Let’s have a few of those from time to time to laugh about and smile

And only tell those few whose eyes will twinkle

While You wonder if we ever read Paul’s letters and You know full well we did and that we believe so earnestly in salvation that we think it’s probably okay

And what is sin anyway and

Isn’t everything kind of a sin anyhow and

It was like that when I got here

And thank You for Your love or

Surely there’s a place for me in hell right next to Henry Miller & my

Punishment is having to listen to him recite his own

Awful books

For eternity

The Greatest of These

A poem:

Decades of damage

Pounds of defense

Yet nightmares come to an end

Daylight breaks

An epiphany, then forgotten, remembered later

When it finally makes sense

A Father

The unending presence waiting for the Son

To be seen in your Spirit

No matter what

If you’re so inclined…please contribute.


Two Poems

Poem 1:

Mitosis is
when one cell splits to heal
repair and
But meiosis makes new people
I don’t know which happened to us

Poem 2:

It might be a camp fire
or a small sun but
it is the beam of a lighthouse
to this blinding cone

All light penetrates darkness but
yours penetrates yet more light
That’s a hell of a trick reserved for
angels and
their baked goods


Sense of Humour

I cried “Why don’t you help me?” and
God said nothing I could hear.

I said “You have abandoned me!” and
God said “Have I?”

I declared “You don’t exist!”
and God said “If you say so, dear.”

I studied and read, I sought mentors. I had
magic, incense, candles, bells, incantations, circles, water, salt, spells, dragons, quarters, elements, cords, herbs
fucking craft projects
God said “Well, this is all very interesting! What does this one do?”

I studied and read, I quoted Lao Tsu & Chong Tse & Sidartha & the Lotus Sutra & I breathed mantras to Kuan Yin through tears and then
God said “Well, this is familiar.”

And then God said “Look, here is a shiny thing. Behold; it is well formed and kind.”
I beheld the shiny thing and breathed in its light and cried.

God said “I am calling to you, but I know how you are. Do you know how I am yet?”
And I said, sniffling, “Maybe.” And then, “Show me more. Please?”
And God said “I know how you are & I know what you need. You are a funny girl.”

And he led me to a dense place, packed with love as gauze fills a wound. There was room for me.

I became sicker and God said “I know how you are. I know all of you. Help each other out.”

The power of Christ compels me.

I writhe unable to sleep just trying to comprehend
what is the end
why didn’t this one thing happen
or this other
then it does
and God laughs and says “You are a funny girl. Don’t you know me by now?”




You are every bubble that
spews from a champagne glass 
you are every flicker of light
You are that stream that children let out under water when they are turning somersaults and you
singeing the edges
warming the room
and clearing the gloom.


George Herbert Coughing In My Face

  Herbert died of tuberculosis at 40. I am 41. I have outlived George Herbert, priest & poet. I have outlived Scott Weiland. I have outlived Robert Loggia, many cats, my grandparents, my best friend in college, and it seems I will outlive a little girl who is the daughter or sister of my friends. I don’t know what to do with any of this information. I never know what to do with feelings.

Saint Thomas, my church that I’m always rabbitting on about, has an Advent series every year. We do some kind of educational activity that involves speakers or reading. This year we’re reading I Pray In Poems, & last Wednesday night we all huddled into Father Davies’ home, strewn about like books ourselves along the dining room table & living room furniture. We read George Herbert’s “The Collar” which I always thought of eye-rollingly as “the whinging priest poem”. No more. I get it. Especially after Wednesday’s shock in San Bernardino, when the Inland Regional Centre was attacked by ISIS sympathizers…radicalized persons who don’t care that these are the people who get my Downs brother his bus tickets, help him with job placement & IEPs, like so many other special people they assist. Father mentioned my brother & the IRC many times during the Mass, which was moving & tear-filled, at least for me & my sister, & then we read that poem, & it made a lot of personal sense.

Listening to my fellow parishioners…my family…give their various ideas about it was like a pleasant after-dinner conversation that I imagined normal families had growing up. I have since learned that that rarely happens, as all families pretty much turn on the TV or fight, if they even eat together these days, but it’s always been a fantasy of mine, & I got to live it. I look forward to the next two sessions.

I am reminded today, as I find everyone petulant or didactic or thoughtless or irritating in the face of so much loss, of “The Collar”, but more importantly that I used to write scads of poetry as a kid to deal with my feelings. At least before I discovered food, anyhow. Now that I refuse to use food, I am less stable again, more angry, more anxious, more depressed. But I am also alive. And I remembered that there is poetry. So in addition to the two or three notebooks I completely filled in high school & college (& indeed all my twenties), I may as well shove some down your throats here. It may even help me lose weight. HELP ME LOSE WEIGHT, JERKS.

It’s Still Happening

how can you believe all the things you believe about me when





    falling in torrents on your face
yet you persist in your madness to declare “You are a desert” and “Nothing grows in you.”

I have seen the desert! We have lived there!

A coyote once came up to me and
licked my jeans. She was so
gentle and

This is not an account you could believe
You cannot remember
You believe nothing except the lie in your head
You will do so until you’re dead.

I have hoped many hopes for you
I have prayed
Some of those hopes have been born
they are the best of children
Some were too high
they are experiments in a lab
perhaps they are monsters
    maybe they should have died
I have stopped asking much of the will of God
My hopes are unnatural
I want to fix all the brains that break
He works His wonders in the darkness
I would shine a light on all
 then cry at what I see
Maybe the problem is me

So see me as a desert but
treat me like a garden at least
You used to have a cactus
I figured that you liked it
You only had to water it a little bit and
it never died like
everything else did