Fountain Of Confessions On Amazon

fountain of confessionsFountain Of Confessions

    Fountain Of Confessions is now available on Amazon and Amazon Kindle. I look forward to hearing any feedback on it. Thank you so much!

    Am I New

    Flapping tongue, to change your name, to change yourself,
    to change,
    to change,
    you say it’s smoking time, maybe if the zone changed,
    but we run on desert time,
    at devil lake
    I wish I was, a reservoir, I wish I was a dog,
    rolling in the dirt, a tumble weed,
    collecting time and breeze,
    in the hustle
    flapping in my sleep to change position, to change disposition,
    to change,
    I meditate, a trumpet sounds,
    an angel sings, is it me?
    Did I work? Did the clock split my tongue
    and now I am two?
    Am I new?


    In spite of great solitude
    come the chirp, chirp of
    the night
    dripping like water droplets
    down the sink drain,
    straightened out loud,
    a philosophy.

    Alone as a daydream, deep
    in a honeycomb,
    nobody comes,
    nobody goes,
    rolled up in my own cigarettes
    horror chirps in
    the white plaster.

    All day, mold forgets to grow.
    It understands it is just a story,
    not like the crickets that
    chirp, chirp all night,
    catching my sleep in their wings.
    I miss them terribly
    when night falls down drunk
    and puts them to bed.

    I wait for twelve hours,
    picking hair from rubber carpet,
    melting soap into black licorice
    for the old neighbor man
    with the old hat.
    I wait till school buses smile
    and wave good-bye to
    the highway.
    I wait until the waves of L.A hold
    the last handful of
    sun, till the crickets come.

    Stuck In A Jar

    If I count on the hours to happen
    regularly, I’d be stuck in
    a jar, afraid of measurement against

    Instead, my cells vibrate against
    all odds. I crack eggs, scrambling
    locked brains, eating for the
    sake of eating.

    I have only been substantial forever.
    Nothing more. Just my face,
    along with legs, and hands that
    move like a floppy clock.

    But my name, now that is something.
    Every hour that comes,
    every hour that goes,
    will remember my name,
    just the way my cells will remember
    how small I am,
    like an ant stuck in a jar,
    burning from the most toxic hour.

    The Death Of Aaron James

    cello is a thick, heavy syllable
    crying against the shoulder of
    a thin woman,

    a road of auburn hair trailing down her
    spine. She understands value.

    Prose is never numb,
    it spans across nerves
    playing emotions with finger

    tips of red wood.
    You brought Lydia to me
    at twenty-five,
    she dripped into my sleep
    and led me
    on a journey.

    For you, she was a symptom of
    something incurable. She opened my throat,
    expanding me and you

    The cello smiles with wide fingers,
    thick like its soul.
    Lydia takes me on a piano ride
    in red wood snow where prose
    grows and grows and grows.


    I see that one arm is stubbed
    by something. No one else can see
    this, like it isn’t true.
    To them, I am tragedy,
    and I let them.

    I am a hot potato
    and they drool over food.
    My crippled hands shove their
    mouths full of muscle.
    They like it raw
    and tough.
    So, I give them my back bone
    to gnaw on,
    they snap it like baby pea stock.

    I spend two years in the ground,
    done with legs
    and feet
    and toes
    and balance.
    I buried myself in dirt,
    living with termites.

    The thing about termites that no one else can see,
    is that they aren’t true. To them, we are tragedy,
    and we let them.

    Old Memories Of Paris, Café Au Latte

    Old memories of Paris, café au latte,
    iron wrought on a kitchen sink
    where she slimmed her figure
    on a butcher block.

    She dangled like a wind chime,
    toes on pointe,
    testing the winds and
    the Gods on
    Wisdom of Love.

    Pretty little music box, my doll,
    bathing in sunlight
    through reflections of The Tower at
    dawn. I asked her what she saw.

    Her answer was as black as a widow
    living off space between sun flower seeds.
    I turned to her soul and spoke
    to her in cotton,
    she understood,
    souls always understand what is next,
    and why.
    I led her to confession.

    She rattled all the way,
    dangling eight unworthy legs –
    shooting silk like
    it meant nothing,
    because that is all she had ever known.

    By sunset, she had dried up.
    Everything that she had devoured
    had taken over
    and spit her spirit out.

    Deep White

    Demons sleep in the deep white,
    a place to rest while
    laundry drowns without ultimatum,
    while dismembered chickens
    swell in heat – sticking to
    bits of parsley that grew this year.

    People expire faster than milk.
    If it isn’t there taste, it’s their
    noises or gestures
    or lack of reflection.

    Kids are running off to school,
    I leave the bread in the toaster.
    One more day, slice open the demon,
    crawl inside

    guilt grows off walls
    shames eats at intestines
    all the people go, go, go
    off to let me sleep in the deep

    His Name

    just the beginning,
    slithers off wet lips with charm.

    Mockingbirds use many tongues
    to sing of slick footprints
    stepping in,
    stepping out.

    At first blush they call,
    crested blue, aggressive;
    wild for the North,
    where dragon fruit merges with devotion;
    where I found his name.

    We spread together as far as Summer could take us
    until we melted into sunspots at the edge of the Earth,
    high desert heat drying out our love.

    Later, we flew south in high, asthmatic screams;
    nocturnal – fugitive.
    It is never the first time.
    It is never the last.

    His after tastes like a razor blade,
    but I am a glutton and I cannot
    let go of his name.