Critical Secret

Critical Secret

Here is a secret:
Eat every criticism.
Bite into the outer layers
with your bared teeth, feast
on its soft vulnerable insides.
If the center is hard then suck it
awhile. Let unwanted pith dissolve
away in your strong acid. It’ll all soon
leave your body. Thank the ironic gods for
giving challenging nourishment. And go about
your work. Comments will keep til you’re hungry.

If Only

Wow, I held back for so long.
Shamed by how the depth of it
knocked me to the ground.
I am afraid of real hallucination.

Joy, I never gave up my heart to this
shit assessment—mentor delusion.
I’ve a governor. A sea of dead lovers
who speak to me; they say “if only”
from books where loneliest brilliance
never found its soul mate.

You grow better and, you’re welcome
I meanwhile do not have to sit
in the lowly status of idiom’s prowess.
It is miraculous to be heard by the living.

You were right that I am no one
to you—
gladly, to you, I am no one.

prompts: sugarcoat fingerprint primrose retrograde saga dormant hypothetical implores plumes resolve normalize shame

November 4, 2021 to November 18, 2021

from the new moon to the full moon in Scorpio

The sugarcoat fairy has a white wand that sprays a sweet powder onto desserts, glass rims, and hard truths.
Often followed by the elusive tooth fairy who sneaks in to collect your teeth and the occasional sock.


o your voice
ridges, whorls
veins, shape
disturbs the air
in a lover’s mouth
quicken, thicken
the formant
folds deep
in throat
open and close
bones and body
lash and tongue

How fast you move, swift Mercury
how slowly your myth wanes
Appearing to regress backward
as you pass in retrograde

Venus relaxes on cowslip wine
made from the primrose
of youth, when a paused
message of love was new

“Sorry about that! It’s a monthly saga. She sought help but her insurance might as well be a coupon for 10% off Midol.
Her support group changed locations without telling her and, oh no.., I can’t find my wallet—“

“GO!” The clerk said, standing in the rubble. “LEAVE!”


“The term ghosting is an insult to ghosts.”

Cere cut deep into the burning bush, removing dead weight from the dormant plant to stimulate growth in the spring.

“All you can do is treat yourself better than that—care well for yourself—and love comes back. New love.”

hypothetical implores

It hurts. The expectation.
But it was a lipless hypothetical notion.
A narrative unspoken neither guides nor implores action to reach that forever ending, where pride belongs to everyone.

plumes photo

plumes resolve
plumes of lament
$2k in car repairs
filigreed wreathy elegy
time = money + interest
shearing scytheless stylist
resolve mends or ends
in determination

like a fresh


“Not everything has to be normalized. You don’t comb the beach looking for the least exceptional rock.” I looked at Ash. “Sorry, the graveyard, seeking unremarkable stones.”

Something like a smile broke through Ash’s stolid face. “Or the bones of sane people.”


I’m a firestarter
A ram bored with shame
Blood cut off from tight reins
Cold hand fumbles matchstick

A shrug-off warms up
this sympathy dance
Great romance cues
the strings, notes
like tears drop
Douse a flame

Relax the grip
gentled baton

rosa gallica

classical style from the poetry book, the waywith sun

rosa gallica photo

any of a genus (Rosa, family Rosaceae, the rose family) of usually prickly shrubs w/ pinnate leaves and showy flowers having five petals in the wild state but being often double or partly double under cultivation

Rosa Gallica

O rose, o rosa rose, thou art the same
tho’ rueful romance oft’ has touched thy name;
a passing bitter simmer and a trace
of the sweet scent that simile did taste.

What in your properties do awaken,
from the stem, the thorns, the leaves, or the scents,
analogies of transient emblem?
O perfect love, but likened to be kept.
The cut keeps the fragrance everlasting,
the thorns defend the attempt;
trail flower

I follow the bloomed blaze of vast retreat;
thy path of five petals, count thy wild beat
Fast in the wilder; Gallica scent for me
What lovely name? O rose, thou art the same.

the muse left me / exposure to the abyss

writing published August 22, 2021

The muse left me

The muse left me for a polyamorous cad who grew tired almost immediately. Now our visits are plain-spoken, almost sad. Take place on the ground without wing or abstraction. It is as if we are at a holiday party catching up with a run-down of our accomplishments: How was your year? Well, I’ve been fine. Ron has faced some changes. They rounded up the men and put them in a pecker house where they were trained to work as peckers. He took right to it; world’s oldest profession. 

One very lucid day, the muse was going on about Venus being a disco ball. And “Kiss me with the radio on. The waves they bend my favorite song.” It was a complete creative cop-out. I think the muse was trying to look unaffected by the actions of the cad so broadcast this big happy-happy-joy-joy routine. It was hollow. 

Here’s hoping the muse will become tender again without needing a twelve-step program or a priest. I will wait and meanwhile try to provide a motivating soundtrack. 

Exposure to the abyss

A good friend will hold you by your feet and dangle you over the abyss to show you the footholds in the walls. A good friend will suggest a twist or kick for momentum or that you use bat technology to scream yourself off the walls. They’ll send you training tools like books or quotes or brushes; suggest new mediums: bristles dipped in tears, malleable dreams where sleep is a long luxurious blink. How it all works together to flush the sight of shards of memories worked around the nerves in sympathy. The body forgets its process while a good friend refuses your censorship, rides the shame to shamanic exodus. Holds the flashlight while you climb out of the abyss.


for Lois

friends photo

With you I don’t kill time till time kills me
And I would miss you because you’d never leave
That is the highest value, consigned like family;
my sibling I was not instructed to love

It’s so easy, this vulnerable intimacy;
no cling to agro youth as we take our seat

Ours is a permanent love seldom on display
in growing observation that does not take
away the benefit of the doubt; we benefactors
heal together plotting the wondrous day

And don’t insult the witch:
This is not naivete;
It is a pact with heaven through hell
We question unafraid

The sickle moon

The sickle moon, with ice chip tips
clears away the day

In amber tunes of the low sun
retiring to its unseen bed;
The knowledge that it never sleeps
unnecessary for dreams
as we rest soundly in dependable return

The sickle moon rests in waxed shade
partly phased inpathic privacy

We too allow the mind its mysteries;
That lunary healer of all things sensory
works in wordless timeless sympathy,
within sleep’s reactive silence,

its filtry ministry

~ LAFogle

crescent moon dusk photo
Sickle Moon poem image

first posted on Twitter September 2021

Sister Knot

for Nikola

Shh, don’t say a word
on the harvest of the Great Confirmation Bias

All moves, construed, take cover
Links to the center of a silver chain frame
Dark brocade hair lays layered and wound

The Sister Knots fit pretty
at the temple, wrist, or throat

Their mother wore it first
A hand-me-down; heirloom
in dignified terms

The girls learned to fight
over it: tears, fists, appearances

Its victimized cut-off
reenacted on damaged friends


red berries photo


I’ll guide you through the gloom
of the lowermost fathom
where the golden flower gathers light
the moment it is seen;
sparks the charge of a lumined heart
from its dormant reality

Loses the rhyme to court opinion
that resists the loop of a beat.

I should make this a garden song

Nature may not know her future hybrids
what signs await
in the warning hues of bright berries:
the conspicuous guides
the subtle guides
pick their sides