Diverging Paths

I’m miles away from my dreams.

They have been hunting for valid reasons.

The humor of how we were born in the same year,

It really needs a song,

And she did many things right,

While I have sat as dust to the left.



Church of memoir

of discovery

of chants.

Cloistered in my name are ten lives

I did not live

in favor of a sublime 11th.

What is better than best?

What can joy can be discarded for ecstasy?

The taste of salt lines my mouth

when I look back.



translated to Xhosa, Afrikaans, and back

Church of Love


I find joy

while I lay cloistered in my ten lives.

Auroras swirl beyond my reach.

They will not live.

There is a reason I am so inordinately fond of 11.

What is better than a lot?


Why have I ignored peace?


It tasted of salt in my mouth.

Power lines guiding me back home.



Church of Love

Separate the gaiety from the joy.

Lonely in my ten lives,

they live,

it is as though they live without me.

How do I dispose of gaiety?

Of me?

22 Pounds of Wishes

I have 22 pounds of wishes hidden among the weeping wisteria.

The flowers by the pond have been melancholy a long time.

I drink with them.

Look at Lily’s tattoos.

Kind of abstract, don’t you think?

I’ve been told some people are really into that.

But the roses and I share the best laughs because we know it is not about pattern

but all about color and that soft, sweet texture on the fingerpads.

Meanwhile the snapdragons do deep, twisted math at the waters edge

and I drop a wish in the water.



This clock is orange and extravagant

like a drink I shouldn’t be drinking because it is only noon

and I have a child.

In a clock,

wild excess is forgiven.

The clock throws so many minutes in the trash,

spends forever buying contraband at every border.

My fingers have given their free will for a little love from this clock.

End of Time

I wear a necklace of thirst.

My forehead is emblazoned with

The idea is in the umbilical cord.

My shoes light up.

I cannot walk without marching,

Dance without dreaming,

Scream without reading.

I carry a satchel of books.

The first one reads,

In the aftermath are bunnies and prose.

The second reads,

Math is Armageddon.

The third reads,

Armageddon was yesterday. The aftermath

Is bunnies and prose.