No great oak when shedding leaves, I’m losing petals quickly.
Not mites, not snails, nor even fungi; spots have grown where
Xylem stream, where tracheids work, where life’s excitement
Surges.
Erase the stars from the velvet sky
Roll down the mountains, one by one.
Say goodbye to animal glamour
Soon we follow,
painted ponies on the vaulted carousel
I've been singing the same song
since last April. finding new harmony.
walking around three months
with an ice cube on the tongue.
I am sitting in the shadow of fortuitous buildings,
the Bhagavad Gita on my mind, but I am part of
no such embroidered parable. So much so, adventure
seems hardly to exist.
The songs are a civilization that at some point
Collapses, the singing dissipates
Into noise, the aliens grow thin
And blow out of our lives with the next thunderstorm.
Flash back: a baby screams across the hall. Knock.
Knock, knock. It's father stone-faced towards the crib.
Don't touch. Do nothing. A non-action: flee.
Tales of furious fights. The child, un-held,
continues to cry, as planned.
I have been waiting
for my turn to be sacrificed.
I wait to end my deer-like paralysis
from this cold-hearted culture
hunting for sport.
at the coffee shop sits a tattered poncho
a man beneath, voice like artillery shells
fired from beneath a redbeard jungle
Transparent eyes of the horses in
The hoary sky can scare all the music
Away from the face of the planet.
Do you savor the sins of the saints in the air?
sunglasses reflect cigarette smoke
held lazily
in stained fingers
he inhales
we depart
over uneven concrete.
Death, drugs, drunkeness, disaster… polaroids reimagine notorious vacations from literature, news and film on Lake Wequaquet, Cape Cod.
he and sister’s souls black
as soot,
they would burn together
in the flaming pit.
Excused from singing, a teenage exercise
Cowardly altercations laugh at misdeeds
Addicted to pretence, erotic dreams
Roses from kisses laugh at the serious.
-but the paper is on fire - but the fire is a mid-range paper supply company with a cheesy pita in the toaster oven - but the cheesy pita is my nostalgia and the toaster oven is an algorithm that can configure an approximation of my future personality with greater accuracy than I can
Bambi stands poised on the page, elegant,
beautiful, but I am skeptical of deer. Deer can kill
with their antlers—from the Old French antoillier,
a horn in front of the eyes. Is this deer some rogue unicorn?
The sky’s more an ocean than a street
as we slowly harden the first while swelling the second,
abrasive sky with billions of tiny full pockets
while the ocean’s clothes are unravelling, sinking
like silly promises
of love and always
in the vast and hungry
empty
burning night.
Lately I’ve thought about a dooryard
Bereft of lilacs, out of season,
The jailbreak of circus animals,
The slouch of some beast toward somewhere.
Strewn across
Desirous dreams
Are concentrations of lead
Each form of escape
Is more dire than the last
I’d hate to be shipped off to a land run by a tiny group with lots of money
and guns, where attending a movie, or school, or a concert
is a fear-ridden, anxious, ordeal.
Then she stood, her eyes watery and luminous, one hand on her stomach
and I stood with her, unsteady, my muscles remembering, my memory remembering,
Once in awhile all one needs is a pause, then a thank you.
You taught me the pleasure
of petty crime
of sneaking away
with a glass full of wine
Enter communion. Enter wounds. Enter chastisement. Enter what we need. Sweet blood of Jesus enter. Enter joy. Enter Paul. Enter power. Enter explanation. Enter people who are hanging upside down.
Everywhere is worship.
Everywhere is a side, a right in defense,
a child understanding the unhealed land, and
the blank faced stare of justified murdering—
the compliance, the bow of fear,
Europe is, as far as we can tell,
A very dirty place, you know.
You know what I mean?
the move from human to earthling
cheddar dump was a lightning spore
when the dreams come down
the shaking of the language to go
You said that I am fire to you
just when the candle went off.
You said that you burn when we make love,
that your body of water cannot
extinguish the fire that I light in you.
I'm not dead yet but I'm supposed to get
ready they say at Sunday School because
at any time He can come for me, that's
Death or sometimes they say God, which tells me
they're the same, Death and God I mean, for that
Having a written plan
in advance
to keep babies in cages
with no family
around or guards who speak
their Spanish language
Although saccades can occur in complete darkness,
they are often elicited when something attracts
attention and the observer directs the foveas
toward the stimulus. Are there any spirits entirely
separated from matter? Each of these creatures is a world
the heavy crowds...one million,
are but a moment, their voices
stilled by one person, and behind
her the person who holds
the reins of prison, silence
There’s kind of a beatbox thing going on.
He took up a book but could not read.
He threw down the book, seized her hand, and wept bitterly.
‘Tis bitter cold/And I am sick at heart.
No such thing as information
hardware when you go skinny-
dipping. All soft, no mix &
match, show some flesh or show
I would want to watch the world burn,
but it's mundane and common place now,
and so even that is boring. I would hide
this in a metaphor, but I would rather clean
the barrel of an obsolete revolver.
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