news of the night:
they're madly searching for fresh acts of God
(or quantum luck) on second floors,
scattered tumblers in trailer parks.
nevermind the great uncertainty
leaning down your neckline,
the untelling weight-hood and period-luminosities
they teach you to ignore in school
until your comfortable derangement
can be seen from a dozen parsecs away
as one more animal armageddon.
why don't our hands,
against our weather?
dead1.dead3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i hear these words
and something happens
in the yard;
it doesn't fit
i see it squeeze
into the slits
beneath your shirt.
i feel it fly the smooth
from off your back. it turns
and hides behind the acres,
of jagged rooftops,
kept far and safe
has left the limb
as light would leave
i’m staring into its absence
and some new kind of animal is made;
its reversal is alive.
it doesn't move or breathe.
the park is wintered over, and i don’t go.
are all gone.
and when they do come back, they never change
from birth to birth,
a clan of inbred
with felt umbrella
that don’t remember
who i was.
one last thought of your last thought
and all the rest become their graves.
nothing i remember, now
will reach the earth.
i have no bottom ground,
the narrow knots of wood
that span and hoard and cup my self
are laughing into holes;
PositiveLeft to me, your worst historian,Positive3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to pick up, in a daze, some depth of diction
I never found while you had lived
and I can only now pretend that words are capsules
of sanguinity, that they’ll unmask the symbologies
of sound that bore your binaries to their realms
like sacred dreams of Hypnos.
Regret’s a simple word.
I always thought of "A Separate Peace", and in those scenes
you were this Mozart in the rough, a perfect chord, one
which I would meekly channel through cracks of light
shown through the fist of my own interference,
Why this wisdom, now?
The cosmic clown who wrote this song
does not annotate our endings with an epilogue.
I do not see the irony in celebrating
your new found space.
There is no iconicity,
no special shape
that serves the world
as you did serve,
to bend and writhe the streets
into a wellspring, a circuitr
low Tlow T3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i'm too soft and rotten
sacred blood oaths,
or thresholds; a frozen inch of face
the same as light years, oceans,
i'd rather brush my mind with pills
and stick these artifacts of wealth
hard inside your origins
and keep the grass
pentadactylismpentadactylism4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and in so doing
you deign to make
some unknighted landfall
in a mime
of an irreversible
all this time
when we’ve gathered up the last
of roadworthy flowers,
touched our final
in the skull
on leaving . . .
we’re still together
hungering in underboards
dog-fed on blood slivers, whiplash and improvidence.
do we pick at moments
to unlock their gnashing
i have no reason for what i want
just . . . be my collaborateur
be everything that is outlying and forbidden
the cavus which cannot bear the weight of waterweeds
and i promise to keep you
ever since our funeral
in that godless hollow
of a mind
ParamnesiaI've tasted the richness and emptinessParamnesia3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Hacked my way through abstract forests,
Somehow it all made sense.
A scene gets deleted,
I'm looking out and watching myself
Walk backwards like a Hollywood ghoul:
I hear you say,
"Only hummingbirds can fly that way".
You are binding stars to everything,
You tell me it is sunlight catching on dust
My self-taught body can utilise these fictions:
Irrational numbers which bend in arm-crooks,
Closing eye beams, who shrivel fjords
And shutter planets;
A wicked, living dissolution (without a will,
Defeats the twin which light has dreamed . . .
And now un-dreams.
I watch the untold eloquence of mind (we thought it chaos,
But it was freedom!)
The fonts and titles, the smiling spectres
Cataloged in gravities
Are now, themselves, in repossession.
Starting where we finished,
Humming backwards to the sun.
(it is not a dream if it is everyday)i no longer have the gall(it is not a dream if it is everyday)3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to write letters to my universe.
it’s stony quiet,
it’s possum eyes in headlights,
in Victrola dust.
some tireless pamphleteer
has wrecked this room
with motorized felicity!
there must be
one bill for every breath,
and now, i see
you are the same.
you’re no magic
planet. i will
some time tomorrow,
mid morning, when the bugs have died,
and drive to work
and i won’t think
that ever came
before that sun.
i’ll trade in shibboleths
and type in pointy letters
these sharp assessments
of fallacies and
that fringe our fates
like breached reactors,
off of old yucca
and they’ll pay me well
and you won’t hear me,
beneathbeneath3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it goes without saying:
the air that settles
on your chest
the language of your local fruit
the swirl of rind
their glyphs and runes
like sun-bent cheeks
and creatured time
that sleeps between us.
i needn't tell you anything
or speak my way inside of you
you've doctored in all my aspirations
your furious dreams' wild successions
no longer carry
i am written
the shut-inthe shut-in4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
where are these keyholes to the Equinox? the stars huddle
like alien nettle,
a gray chime of wrens scaling tree limbs and middays,
Darwin has no lines for me
i've sheetrocked the blistering ivies and blossoms.
i've glassed out daubers and frightening mollusks
pillowing through mud honey and minute old ruins.
intimate with my quiet desk, my paper hoard
i'm still a coward; the envelopes, Obama glass, the dozen unused spiral
diaries are menacing concoctions, minotaurs of lost dimensions.
i used to sleep in creek-beds.
rhetoricrhetoric5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
they say insanity
in failing strategies.
what is living,
What is loving
forget about meforget about me4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
don't listen for it, anymore:
the ugly balladist, the poète maudit
unbosoming his delustrants,
strangulations and subglossal annulments.
i want you to find my secret life, the arrhythmia
of spoondrift oblivions.
open out your palms to me; i'm over-swelling with octonaries, octonaries!
that is where i've been these years,
in the night between kneeholes.
. . . marry him.. . . marry him.4 years ago in The Great Valentine Exchange More Like This
he will gleam like photons
tangled in sheer joy.
where i harvest dead localities,
he will sheath the touchstone nerve.
his voice will soothe great quandaries
like growling cicadas solve summer nights.
his eyes will break into blessed anointments.
his lips will pierce the frighteners
and spill their silver antidotes -
a cure for every blasphemy,
a pardon for every criminal.
remember who he was,
a mystic lisping empathy
for pure, unbottled moments,
a silence worming through bicycle wind,
a gender scribbled on a brainstorm,
the flashing of satori
in the scatter-shooting cosmos,
a wonderer, wondrous
with no guilty body,
a boy's fond familiar
who keeps a tail feather of god
stuffed in a bag of beetle legs
and cats eye marble galaxies.
i suppose i was never
the one who was meant to apron you,
to feed the thirsty virginities
that open up
beneath your womb. . .
i'm not the one to paper you
with sanctuaries and closet troves,
Moon CratersMoon Craters4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the smoke hut
that is melting
by the bulb,
I am this
of fragile-ware and crocheted filaments
that vein out in disparate quests
from the patterns of your
God, I have some
Spaniard lust for those pearly little drop-
chorales of your twin diviners
clotted up like amber marbles
and left to summer
in the charity heap.
Damn their colours, they're all mania degrees
awash in recollected prayers,
that bare your dark coal
and purpled burn stone
of the Goddess
made (on top) of you
finger through me
How you de-gleamed in reverse, a light-ascetic
black (pin)holes in a mime;
when I thought to thresh
you out of boots
to a craterous
The Bats of SedonaThat nightThe Bats of Sedona2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when the black lip
of Arizonian summer
and we watched from the balcony
these bats of Sedona
the both of us
thought them sacred
yarn on their tails
with the colour of the air
into the headdress
of a tree
and from it
the last of the rust red
and a vortex
of soundless antipodes
were blowing back the shroud
to all we did not fathom
but don’t speak of truth - whatever
you people use to
still the wings,
to know of things
I don't mind if they weren't bats
after all - if they were just some common swifts
feasting on the bugs below the condo lamps
i'll always remember
come gods or chaos
had the same
RemoteThe pond eyeRemote2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
drunk with Oklahoma rain
comatose in the yolk
of a centrifuge
is my third
Egrets perch high in sycamores
like leaning lashes.
sickly black oaks
and hold mass at feeder ducts.
Turtles dart beneath the pupil
as cows come blundering
into the inner blue
of a vast
MorphologyMorphology4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
See for yourself.
Strip the pinbones to their teeth.
Use a microtome to thin each veil; engram to sacromere to the chest-pulp of chromatin,
You will find the same sweet euphonies:
Filatures spinning bliss from irrationals,
Rose-cloud billows from bluebird mandibles,
Shinplaster brewed to a platinum tea.
All that I'm made of,
Whatever you need.
cardboardcardboard4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i had ears for the undersea
i had ears for the words
"you are the most beautiful thing
in this world."
(who knows how it happens)
but the amorist is greaseless,
unguessed and gone
a hoary, haunted
howlet spitting antistrophes
above the spatterdock.
go ahead and live me down.
we all pretend
to drown in sera - this
whole entire dimension
and totem hollows
and other things
and other things . . .
historythe air was moltenhistory3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i see the evidence
cooling in your wake
and iron maidens
shallowit's not your beautiful faceshallow4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that i love
it's how you ruin it
sadists are people, toothis sun has found its nihilistssadists are people, too3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on cold curbs,
on concrete roads.
everyday, one of them guards the subdivision.
i thought, “a sphinx, a totem piece, an angel of death.”
whatever, my sleepy projectionist.
it’s on my way anywhere.
it’s on my way home.
silver-brown maw, it’s at its ugliest
shriveling inside of possum flesh
in a slow taut hug
of the last empty
i won't be caught up
just lay there
souls high kites with holessouls are high kites with holes, the sky is like a crystal ballsouls high kites with holes6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Blue sky harrow:
How lost for adjectives
To break our fast up there
Sugar, tea, and birdsong?
Of course, kites, souls
Curiosities, wind being free
While we, ground strung Gullivers
Flat beneath the
Of the wolcen burnspot
What do I call myself?
My sex deliquesced
An epicene, I'm a lover of honey bees
A curling fern:
We slip around like
In Lilliput ponds.
We dive in as
The tadpoles stop
At the empty
Of an underwater statue-
Arms like levers:
Blackening the coats
And peeling back
Stripping time of
We see the sky
Where it is skyless;
It remains an opal;
In the bowl
Miracle in the SuburbsFrom our little patch of hard won airMiracle in the Suburbs2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
nestled on the ground at the brink of the grid
we watch as a great lung coloured breath
pours out from the dark gray ash
like an ancient hearth billowing below the blue
with hairlines scintillating the façade of our reach
and storms encircle us like columns of wraiths.
On her face, a twinge of wonderment.
This is the miracle for which I wait.
chokechoke5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I've added nothing to [your] nothing;
the complexus came complete.
For all this pathic humming,
one hundred watts,
a pyre of withering
to the clock-lyric,
for hungry dream theorists,
i'm no more solid than a fist of pure thought,
a bleak syrup folding across the eye-burn brilliance
of the real and actual Cynosure;
I've dug through miles of experimental gist
for the throat in your song,
diving for the chromosphere of the Precedent Star
where breath first meets with broken phantasma,
where I was given semblance
by the moth eaten coverlet.
My amygdala oracle
should be disallowed from speaking.
She has a sort of prideful spite
of my touch; I need to gag her disbelief,
make her feel the depetaling rapture
of cruciation, something uncontained
by these leaky gourds,
I want to break it open, egg or specter,
it doesn't matter!
There must be freedom for the milk of angry hornets,
newshours no longer whittle into daysnews4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
strangled and uncalendared;
forbidden rituals of a new dark Eros
clothesline sheets and bed throes → blunders in a blue face
and sensing your reversals, i’ve grown and grown impossibly old;
god’s bad math:
infinities as remainders.
however they lapse
i spend the better part of them
burning through the flyleaves
for mandalas sealed in hell bank
for ashes of your epilogue
for the end of throats
in songs and news.
no one can regret their past
but of futures . . .
like when planets will re-purpose you
into interstellar fruit bats or thyme pulled from the brink of comets
and you’re wondering why i'll never find you
when datebooks write us in the living.
AnterogradeAnterograde5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
There's an inevitable
preamble to every morning: the shriek
from a soundless planet
my own song.
Through Socratic discourse,
crossing off every
possibility . . .
I realize I'm not a fissure
spilling light into the sum, I am not
but a blur
that splits into an ant fire,
All I'll ever be:
outside a clothesline dimension;
just a numskull
It is the inkwell
I fall into. Look,
we have a barbiedoll
for a deity
so why do we need
of another ghost?
I seem to push myself
out of my killing sleep,
back through those bloody walls
again and again
to birth and murder and cherish
every terrible sequence of miracles
until Shiva tires of cutting me down,
having no more cherub worms to feed,
it will speak
that final prayer,