I have written some poetry. . .

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This one is about being autistic. It uses the Elizabethan conception of "changeling" children, strange babies fairies put in the place of real ones.


A shield of changeling mystery
a sylvan smoky shroud
that doctors all of history
and makes the fairies proud
Goes solemn to the teacher's aid
and skipping to the leafy glade
happy sad or quite afraid
but always whole, alone.

Always into diamonds, true,
a genius she shall bloom.
But she will have her ashes, too
a black and somber room.
Though skipping-record minds may leap
their path is difficult to keep.
The girl shall find her time to weep,
and always whole, alone.

A changeling left in yonder world
to speak of magic strange,
to witness human life unfurled
and pleasure to arrange.
She lit with earthly lamplight walks,
she ecstatic Godthought stalks,
she of higher places talks,
and always whole, alone.



This one is about the strange experience of taking a flashlight out on a dark night.


The underflight
of inbred light
doth slash the breast of tender night
on creek it lands
on face and hands
of monsters perched on lumps of man
there are no words
but screams of birds
the slicing light chops into thirds
then morning glows
and thus it shows
the shadows hath no undertows
thy flashlight lies as brightness grows
comfort and dawny sherbert flows
and atoms fall into neat rows.

Yo, that was tight! You got some mad skills!