Autumn Saku Series1.Autumn Saku Series6 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
cloudless noon we debate the gender of God
alone in the field
the phone line rocking
the beggar jangles
his change cup
the cubicle office
work day over
the scarecrow's shirt
leaf clutter at his gravestone things I never said
the teenager paints
miles from home
news of her cancer
in stage 2
the bike race slower
leaving the canoe
world hunger report
I turn the potatoes
a second time
city dusk now and then a starling
my grandmother finds
the groundskeeper steps
the Jack O' lantern carved
with an overbite
at the general's feet
a beer can
the widow circles
a singles ad
the trashcan glowing
the evangelist returns
with a pie
General Purpose Complaint FormGeneral Purpose Complaint FormGeneral Purpose Complaint Form6 years ago in Humor More Like This
[ ] Sir,
[ ] Madam,
[ ] Bitch of indeterminate gender upon whom my wrath falls like the unseen hand of a vengeful God,
I am a dissatisfied customer. To wit, I find myself growing steadily more displeased with the:
[ ] product
[ ] services
[ ] sexual relationship
[ ] exotic animal (specify) ______________________
[ ] other (specify) ____________________________
You provided and wish to bring the matter to your attention. To be blunt, the item in question:
[ ] is dangerously defective.
[ ] was ill-conceived, badly designed, and poorly implemented.
[ ] causes itching, swelling, and open sores.
[ ] has eaten the family pet.
While I am:
[ ] of a reasonable state of mind,
[ ] boiling with ill-contained fury,
[ ] concerned for my health and that of those around me,
[ ] terrified beyond reason,
I am willing to attempt a resolution that does not involve:
[ ] litigation.
[ ] murdering every employee at your business and their fami
Tank Over, 1long conversationsTank Over, 16 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
never had, now resumed.
Your interlocutor, ghost
returned from dark valleys past.
The Glass FountainWe're tree-stuck:The Glass Fountain6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Starry albino nests,
Wombing fictitious maps
Like pressed flowers;
Everything as it is.
We stare on like
Witnesses to the
Of floating anthelia
And with buoying
In our breath
Knocking about like
Icicle chandelier chatter
We open like keys,
Our convincing human-jackets
Left at the door;
With no gauge to hold
Of open cages
From the aching minim
The thirsty thews
Now widely flung, we forsake
And scatter the pylons
The buoys mist to memory-space;
In its place, a bobbing
Anchorless wind-sailer bliss
Without a rocky coast
To crush our cushion star
Can't we just spume here, forever
Lay about in sweet absentia,
A fruitskin filled with perlustration
An ice tongue
Stretched wide like a dreamcatcher
Soaking in hidden suns that flower
Like songs in the breast
Of an astral meadowlark?
And this, our strange elocation,
We find to be no more
Than a trick o
Purpose DrivenI didnt explode when I struck. My time would come later.Purpose Driven7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
It was 1958. Hundreds of thousands of us fell upon the island of Quemoy. The reasons didnt matter to me. All that mattered was the long, cold barrel, the instant of ignition, the ponderous arc across the Taiwan Strait, and the fall. From a Soviet factory to now, my destiny was to kill.
I didnt explode when I struck. My time would come later.
I waited. Rain and wind piled mud over me. Cold, heat, night, day passed again and again. Then, the claw of a steam shovel, and I saw the sun again.
There was a flatbed truck, and crates, and thousands of my brothers stacked on top of one another. We clattered as the truck bounced along the muddy roads of Kinmen. Our war was over. My time would come later.
There was a bespectacled man, gentle, with a hammer and a practiced arm. I melted in his forge. I folded under his hammer, under his patience. I became thin, hard, and gained an edge that would split
Mandelbrot.Mandelbrot4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We sit in the corner of the window, watch the girl loving the boy. He traces the lower hem of her shirt, brings his lips to her head. I press against the glass. Hear.
Young men, choose the dew of women
whose lunatic cruelty to which
only your violence and love can retort,
not the dead ink of pen murderers.
They face one other, noses almost touching. You imagine this close, she can only focus on one of his eyes. Will it matter which one?
The Rampart of Twigs, I say.
He rests his head in the crook of her neck. My ear is cold against the window.
You ask, How does it end?
Be swift muscular fish, keep to the rapids.
He might as well invoke the god of flagella.
We watch him kiss her collarbone.
Scapula, you say and tug on my ear.
Let us love in silence.
The clock ticks in the corner. He rests his head on her chest, his lungs roughly in sync. She looks down at him and parts his hair.
How are we going to end?
I don't know.
Death by earthquake? Mang
Why I am a brain damaged godBecause a god should not fuck her prophet. Because I believeWhy I am a brain damaged god6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
In abiogenesis more than I believe in myself. Because I had
Gore in my fingernails while I cried on the bathroom floor, and you
Rocked me to sick Heldigare's lullaby as the nearby bathtub
Filled with the blood of my enemies.
And I said, with my hair stuck black to the floor, drool
Wet on the back of my hand,
You must love me more than you love yourself.
You must love me more than you love yourself.
You must love me more than you love yourself.
You began to scream when you tried to clean off
All the blood. You said, maybe they're right to call
You a monster, savage child, Kali disease. I stood
In the backyard in a bathrobe where the hawks land
On my shoulders, the snakes writhe and fall dead
Into the pool. I said, if I cannot make you happy,
How do you expect me to save this world like
They wrote in their books, turn their houses into
Ash and the fields to gold. A god should not
Fuck her prophet.
And in this wasteland you are
September haiku setbarn catsSeptember haiku set6 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
sleeping in the shade
hawk carefully watching
the rusted car
the mowing of the greens
roses twice as bright
on a rainy day
the weeks first sunlight
shining on the trash truck
two of heartsHe propped up two cards, brows furrowed in concentration. The pyramid fell and he started again.two of hearts7 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I watched him hopelessly. Where had our love gone?
I reached across and flicked his steady hand. The house of cards came tumbling, tumbling like the two of us falling out of the sky.
Sylviahow ingenious-Sylvia7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a photo taken
the year of their marriage,
hands grasping his
around her waist
and years later
arms holding their children-
and in between,
the New England tanned blonde
to English mouse brown pale-
always those dark eyes
telling on herself,
the frailty, the pain-
the wire she walks
brilliance and sanity
chaos and poetry,
between a child's cold
coveting the prolific,
the unstable nature-
the lover, the writer,
she was so lucky
never seeing another
the way she saw him
but he wasn't there
when she passed over,
gassed and found
alone and still warm
on the kitchen floor
God forgive me
I've wished I was her
in all her brilliance
before that cold morning...
Haibun IIt's ages since I ventured out into the real world. After weeks of convalescing, my surroundings are more surreal. It has me weak. Matted and wet - a newborn foal with legs that wobble when I attempt to walk.Haibun I7 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
The day startlingly bright and rudely hot, the throes of rush hour overlap in my head. My eyes tear up, making it hard to drive once I'm behind the wheel. I think I've missed my season, passing the turnoff on the expressway in my constant disorientation.
on the moon,
nothing rings true
there is no air
Crimson and Proverbs ten pints of bloodCrimson and Proverbs7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
escape the body quickly
when one punctures
PrecipitationPerhaps we're less resplendent in the sunlight,Precipitation8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
It rains all wrong but makes me grow-
like something green and intricate;
delicate shoots and vicious roots
that upturn the world and all it's worth
before rotting into mulch and earth.
Nothing, nothing left but me, a shriver;
who likes the splintered sky
and won't return to dust or the Lord on high-
but sweet precipitation.
It swamps me.
I'd swallow every drop
if not for fear of bursting like the dam I am
and pouring out my current. Shameful. True.
She'll fall once more before the night is through.
Oh God I'm so unhealthy and the rain is gone-
dried up by the rushing, shining summer,
and misinterpretation of sweet precipitation.
lost on bay streetlost on bay street5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
man with a golf club,
where are you going?
have you a message to chip
into a trader's skull?
do you drive into traffic
from your penthouse range?
you walk with purpose:
are you getting chai?
man in the window,
what do you see?
the interns in pencil skirts
the old tourists dragging
their eyes on the ground,
to where they are going.
why don't you?
Rising From The OceanRising From The Ocean5 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
Have you heard  of what the Elders say
About the city of Ys after it was flooded?
"Pa vo beuzet Paris,
Ec'h adsavo Ker Is". 
Well, I was there  when a diluvial torrent
[Came to] submerge the Proud and made crowds shriek [with terror].
Yes, they erected towers of glass and iron, 
And then stole and destroyed everything;
The sacred islands , the dancing woods, 
The worshipped stones  and the singing springs. 
But they regretted their past folly
When the uncontrollable river  swept everything away.
Only then did Dahud hear the city collapse
And knew at once that she could return.
"Great is the sea that saw me die and [come back to life], 
But greater still is my hate towards these traitors!
Gwenolé's sons must all die!
And I shall take back what was stolen [from me]!" 
Weep, weep although you were warned! 
Weep, for the sea has taken over!
I was there, I saw it all, and how frightening was
That ancient city which was once so bril
The BluesIn the tattered corner boothThe Blues6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
he tells me Jazz music
is just The Blues on Prozac,
and his brown suit is already his coffin,
and the white smoke of the club
snakes upwards towards the lights
like a spirit fleeing,
and quietly, underneath this aura, I sit and listen
and my red wine is
something like a lost metaphor I can't find a handle
to place a word around
and through the blackness between us both
he tells me
the story of his Pa, dying so young
and then another of his own life
on the railways of the humid South
where he found his one blessed love
and how he never got the chance
to truly hold her
or time the rhythm of her heart
because the war took him
too far West, far too young,
He drops his whiskered chin,
and his voice breaks a little
between the drones of the saxophone
as he recalls her soft auburn hair,
and the long curve of her neckline
and how her perfect fingers
turned the pages of the psalms on Sunday mornings,
and then he says,
PoseyShe's tyingPosey6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Where she thinks
Smoke Treadsso I heardSmoke Treads7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you like to make mudcakes
only to dust them off
and hide the stars
behind a telescope
their far flung beauty.
and I tasted
with your baring breath
some wood grains on
shaved down cancerous
and grievously festooned;
to rest a thought upon
and you are
a ghost beholden caulfield
an ordinary teen, born
a scream that emanates
charged from a mother's lips
generation that reeks of freedom
all the whirlwind
sees in its eye culminates
to one final grain of sand
a universe revolve around
you; we laugh, but only because
at the fear of never going home.
beingI like being wherebeing7 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
the air is saturated
with your very own.
The Furnish Is EverythingIt was 183 days ago when Minerva Kisling the Yiddish Mentalist first came to my train station. She toured the Neptune-Aries circuit in vaudeville. I had seen her glossy photographs a few times outside of the Easton theater and The Springhouse when she played there, but I never saw her in person. At least, I never saw her until the locomotive that was supposed to be bringing her husband failed to arrive with said husband.The Furnish Is Everything5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
As a redcap for the Southwest Lake Station with a half-dozen sisters, I scarcely could afford the ten cents or the time to see a vaudeville show on a regular basis, but the children working near the tracks would put on cheap imitations of the more popular acts in hopes of getting pennies rained on them. They would dab burnt cork on their cheeks, bug out their eyes, and sing or tell jokes. Often they received the most money when they stopped singing and went back to carrying bags. What the children failed to re-enact, they retold to me on slower days. I was more than pr