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The Occasion: Judgment


we glance, swift as hawks

sighting the prey’s neck

catching them not always

unexpectedly, but always

certainly looking for someone

else’s actions to lay

before our guillotine words

readying the flesh for such

sharp self-righteousness that

God shutters at our

dis-remembrance of

“lest ye be judged”




The Occasion: Lies


sliding from tongues

at first an unsure event

phonetically small,

mere pieces of

—deeds miscarried

sound grows into syllables dripping

over lips

Unstoppable now

Spilling into ears, until the

bulk of WORDS squeeze past

truth and warmth of life

PLOPPING into the world

moldless the rouged tinged blob

shivers in each hearer’s


waiting for un/questionable acceptance or

dis/compassionate disgust