To walk about, head proud

Proclaiming our correctness or preferred brand of mis-fit-ness
The minority of our making, our place
Our belonging, our homogeneous, deserved, radical identity
The unique flavor of our claimed exurbia

While in the city, the alleys of me

Less than the echoes of truth but more than falsities
The scurry, hiding like rats from barking terriers
Mange chased mutts, cowering from chastising
Owners swinging broken leashes

Another me, The Fisher King thee
Nouwen’s healer takes walk-about privilege
Between here and there, played to jaded, directing
Succulent sewers flowing with purity and possibility to mend

Us to a transparent and intertwined majority
Of one


*Exurb - a small, usually prosperous, community situated beyond the suburbs of a city.

Precious Visits

Precious Visits

Before I lost my mind…

Thimble, thimble, who has the thimble
There’s the king, everywhere ruling, drooling

Before psychiatric diagnosis…

Schizophrenic dimensions and delusional fabrications
Voices rising from looming peaks and squeals, surreal

Before the fever came

Hot, Harad lands smelting away coherency
Leaving slag filled days and dross coated nights

Before the fever broke, breaking certainty

Glass slivers and shards scattered on lost streets
Crushed into powder, worming into our soles

Before my mind melted

Running hot
Oozing molten memories into yesterday
Pouring fantastical realms into a mundane cast
Burning frost bite, shivers
Shakes, shimmers beyond the veil

There was the shadow that spoke, the tired fawn eyed gaze, the promise made

It burns. It burns it.

Whispers reaching from the shadows, taunts and pleas
Oder of smoldering flesh chilled in waif whimpers

My precious. Have you found my precious? It's here. It must be hererrrrr...
I caught it, I did. I held it close, felt it burns, my PRECIOUS! They took it from us…

And the shadow’s muted screams faded and I saw it sparkle
In the corner of the room
And it is mine…


I tried to write about abuse
How the hitting makes the
Hurting ease
The shame and fear rage out and strike
Bleeding, pulsing - crimson shrieks and shouts
Curling fists and guts
Determined to be done
To be finished with the fear and frustration
Cursing, blaming, hating another person
And yourself is somehow easier
More natural
When loving isn't easily
There, anywhere
Absent from us like
Light in the darkness jumping shadows

But then, I wasn't sure
If I was writing about him or her...

On the occasion of the death of Wilburn Esters Cox, my step-father.





Death always takes us

Willingly or not

To the edge of this

This life we weave with determination

Gathering our fears, spinning them taunt and defiantly into beliefs, faith we call it

Constructing ideologies and routines to help us along the way

Wrapped in such fabrics

We protect and present ourselves

Whole. Secure. Saved.


Death always takes us to the edge

Willingly or not

Where we, stunned

Stand starring into abysses 

Pelted by torrents made of one part anger and two parts fear

Shards rip us bare

Clothing us in our particular loss


Death always takes us to the edge

The translucent boarder of this

This being

Willingly or not

And then stands there with us in the void

Holding our hand

Until the unknowable breaks ...

Ergo Ego

Skinned knees and scraped egos

Heal slowly

Scabbing over and puffing up

Before growing new

Skin and tender humility 


Today's hurt and tomorrow's




Sweet Sophia

Sophia wind comes.

Yesterday the ignorable breeze.

Today, furnace heat.

From incomprehensible flutters to overwhelming screams.

Within the flit of a thought and obsessive dreams.

Revealing consort and coy muse.


My bothersome, demanding, essential imp.

The Holidays...

The drive that lasted for 4 hours and the wait that was longer
The deep, abandoned, rolling to tears laughter of children
The wraith like memories of ripping wrapping paper
The twinkling lights and flashing fancies from yuletide strands
The raising of the tree
The ritual prayer of our token cleric
The feast marked by odd dishes and common routines
The retelling of stories, forty days and forty nights worth of heritage
The settling into familiar seats and sighs
The late comers and early deportees
The insertion of Tab A into Slot B
The luxurious and the sorted
The games and the game with both having scores and winners
The holidays


Tilted Off...

Tilted Off...





you seem so earth bound, so in place

all of you...well...many of you

no matter

for my restless and my peculiar sprite


muffled into whispers

by convention and intentional

limitations...imposed on me...embraced

by me



is comfort in the arms of not doing...of shifting upon

the pea in the mattress...limping away from the stone in the shoe...enduring the unpleasant

incessant prodding

of ... of... you


too long


i give up

...fine..now what?

tell me what to do! damn you.


i need a translator for this constant, loud, chattering white noise...



Lost and...

The light rises
Lifting the veil of morning

Gazing into pools of possibility 
Ripples of mist and moments
Pushing aside delirium

Daring to dance
Eyes shut tight
Thoughts and head a tilt

You left me yesterday
Was it the year before
Everything aches, still

Tenuous mourning.

On Writing Poetry


Sometimes, I have an idea...a fancy
A particular phrase that gets my attention 
A bothersome feeling that just won't be captured in prose
Then I write it down in short
         Broken lines    


See what comes out.
Then it stares back at me
Talks to me
Calls my name or yours
As I look at its particular shape
Hear its weedy voice
 I might tweak a word or two to get it to look
Or feel or sound a bit better
As it speaks about you or me
Our living, believing, breathing, selves
 Then I name it Poem 
– Because I have to --
Then I hit post and hope it has value to someone else.

(Because of a conversation between poets. Thank you. You know who you are.)

My Poems Know Your Secrets

See them hiding there…behind
The ass-umptions
Peeking within the cheeks of clauses
Phantoms daring to pronounce
Your memories
Best forgotten and sullen
Pole dancing impressions on the axis of
Sliding silently along the line
From hip to clit
A cocked look from the slit ‘tween
Consonant on vowel
Know the no-nos
Whispering around conjunctions
Reminding you of other _unts
Too old or too young for sanctified hosts
Oh God…please don’t tell anyone
God knows and my poems…
My poems know your secrets


This one is a bit naughty...and more true that any of us want to tell. Yes?
— -Kim

When The Snow Comes #poetry

When the snow comes

It's fur cloak of white
Muffling and blending plans
Cardinals become red birds
Sophisticated adult schemes
Fall to childhood dreams

Screen Time

I started looking into this screen

For something that I needed

That needed to be done

Click, scroll, click

Until I find myself

Looking for something more

That I know

I won’t find here

In screen-time

On Being Sick #Poem #MondayBlogs

Pain in the back
Mucus and head aches
Laryngitis and miscellaneous fears

Stopped. Stilled. Silenced.

Filtered sun through mid-day blinds
Distilled thoughts of shallow mind
Little light or clarity

Sheets damp with familiar musk
Covers twisted into a personal husk
Into loathing and disdain

Stopped. Stilled. Revealed.

In sickness and in health
The union within of lies to self 

While Reading Poetry on a Rainy Sunday

While Reading Poetry on a Rainy Sunday

Words dance and weave
Into singular assaults 
With a clash of images 
And colorful sensations
Kindly interrupted by its 
Crisscrossing cousin 
Uninvited visits
Roughly terminated 
All to be known faintly
In murky melancholy 
And egregious imagining


I tried to write about abuse
How the hitting makes the
Hurting ease
The shame and fear rage out and strike
Bleeding, pulsing crimson shrieks and shouts
Curling fists and guts
Determined to be done
To be finished with the fear and frustration
Cursing, blaming, hating another person
And yourself is somehow easier
More natural
When loving isn't easily
Absent from awareness like
Light in the darkness jumping shadows

But then, I wasn't sure if I was writing about him or her...

On Missing Robin Williams

I want to write
About you
Your laughter, maniacal antics, wit
Witticism, whimsy
The way you made me think deep
Through the belly rolling, stomach cramping “please stop”
But not really…so much fun laughter…sent
To ponder the silliness of my existence
The absurdity of my serious self
Your fantastical smile and that particular sadness
In your eyes just beyond reach, casting a spell of

I want to write about
The innumerable truths you spoke
Written in lines, given to you…owned by you
Known through you
“Words and ideas can change the world”
My world…
Why not your world?
Damn it.

I want to write about you
Can’t…it hurts too much
It hurts too much.



My finger tips
Hold the thread of you
Dangling precariously

We had passion…

You linger at my touch
Hovering above the abyss

We had the future…

It’s simple, a little flit, easy
Releasing the rest of you
To fall…fall

The last inches to go
Infinitely gone

Generation Motivation

If you are looking at
Me and My Generation
Shaking your head
Grumbling WTF?!
Walk away and do something
I'm good with that