How to Drink from the River Lethe 



do not cup your hands and sip / do not 

cautiously stoop down / chest on the 

banks / neck declined / tongue lapping 

like Cerberus / do not ask Hades for a straw / 

do not grab that Grecian urn and gulp 

massive memories under / you must  

Olympic dive in / mouth open in gaiety / 

elixir swimming your gullet down / lungs 

suffering / gills ecstatic / pink-muscle 

breathing oxygen through soul-brain / to 

streams of cold cerebellum hellfire / and 

back / back again the clear-love shores  




Poem for my Late Friend 


Quail dream-runners dancing my street 

to the neighbor’s car tune up its driveway 

cooking in August, his regal head hugging 


the front-room window’s edge, blood-lipped 

but gentle, sanguine tail-twitching, 

wagging the soft bed against my mother:  


tear-soaked cheeks missing his snout already, grieving  

his black, muscled beauty. Not strong anymore:  

less a runner/sprinter now than an old man, sickly,  


depleted, cancer-welt filling his left cheek 

like a successful squirrel just before winter, 

only his eyes stare bloodshot emptiness  


down my saguaro road as he is unable to move, 

invalid now. I am melted into a wax similitude 

of fear, callous terror, desperately asking the silence 


for help, for days spent without winding walks,  

for countless missed hours of pink-tongued love, 

for the simple thought of a little more time instead  


of that sorrowful stillness plaguing up my chest 

as his end comes after a neat trick, white as a bone.  





I take a tonic / burn.  

My throat swims heat 

locking flame 

in a chimney safe. 

Potential / energy. Laudanum 

dries back up 

into poison yellow acid 

red, vials censored from disuse.  


Father / Maker / 

Creator / where have you 

died off to? 

No matter how far north 

my dogs 

climb those shining molecules: 

fire! / you planted  

in me 

like a Satanic seed 

never did but bloom. And 

love, Viktor / how you 


everything. I 

creature / figure / 

doppelgänger / 

marauder / fiend  

am a cut from you 

like Eve the rib-baby / yet 

still you deny 

ourself: you thought 

I desired 











Hail Mary, full of grace, 

God is dead at last and thou art free.  

Jerusalem is nucleus to war 

and Bethlehem breathes spirits 

of holy wind, 

yet your power is not lost. 


Woman is priest to man 

and the three kings still 


following their star …. 

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