why notI stroke my beardMore Like This
and wait to be painted.
the stars flicker
in cataclysms of envy,
spackling a vacuum
while I sprawl in a chair
and let music
the trees make the noise
of breaking waves,
aware that I prefer
to the forest.
is a long ways
the shadows weave
the hours fold
in a misty origami--
feedbackThe soul begins where it ends.More Like This
The soul reminds us that destruction is a myth
imagined by a terrified and terminal being.
The soul glows like sunset
but due to the nature of the effect
you can never actually see it walk away from the body,
or cross the street,
or crash through your front door and into your empty room.
The soul is not measured directly
but through the havoc it leaves behind.
The soul is scientifically incapable of caring about your opinion
on whether or not it is real.
The soul is neither alive nor dead.
The soul goes unobserved but ever-felt.
The soul does not forgive.
The soul pouring outward a search beacon
grasping at our music.
The soul a heavy kind of light and a thick wave of tropic
blinking from an unfinished portion of the universe,
neutralized by its own feedback.
The soul is laughing at you and it's laughing with you.
The soul emits in equal parts what it absorbs.
The soul has no emergency shut-off valve.
The soul possesses no weight but has been known to dis
Just lightI sit on the porchMore Like This
and look up
through the dark of the trees
where there lies
a patch of damp
roughly the shape
"my Spanish emptiness,"
I say, full
of the absurd
and silent drama
of the lonesome.
I laugh and touch my beard
the way a child
or an animal
for the first time
and the Spanish borders tremble.
Lower in the trees
lies a smaller empty space
which I dub
my Gibraltar of longing,
through which I can discern
only one constellation at a time.
I shift in my seat
to move the cosmos
behind the leaves
in much the same way
my schoolteachers slid
mapping the classroom wall
languageI see herMore Like This
in the tiniest of things
I know the world
on her lips and cheeks -
a myriad of flights
with the artless peace
what she is
looking for -
in her eyes.
The Writers At Newton ParkThe mist is silk to the slender neck of the lakeMore Like This
and only two ducks have had the nerve to begin their day before me.
They slide across their glass dance floor in unison,
not so much a waltz as a dream.
I sit cross legged on the steps of an abandoned pavilion
and watch the sun lift its arms to orchestrate the beginning
of another morning.
There is no one else with their eyes unshuttered,
it is not yet six.
I can see my breath, my muttered words, as I write them down.
A small black shape draws arrows in the water and it is not light enough to yet know what he is.
The stone is frosted and it seeps through my jeans and grips my flesh, I don’t care.
It’s worth it to see the sky getting out of its bedding clothes and into the shape of day.
It's worth it to see the lake gradient from a mildly distempered hazel
into the temperate and serene slate of March.
The lake lives under the shadow of hills and houses
And is not afforded the full slow bloom of a sunrise.
It is given the bare
I would have you do thisHere.More Like This
this is your prayer
your mantra, your news.
I leave it as I found it, papering in the streets.
as godless a truth as you will know
it’s still a ghost of a dream
smaller than theories of infinite resolution.
you will believe it because it has no industry
no acolytes or storefronts.
it’s not an embezzlement of fascination
or confabulation of missing histories.
you will not doubt its truth because your design is hollow
the space inside your car
the adventitious spine that vials through the weeds
the ice of march on adam’s needle
the ants, crickets, beetles under sandstone
waiting in a music box for the catalysts to wake
and split them out into the breen.
you will speak of your awareness
without knowing what inhabits it
like a colour that doesn't hum
or passing through a future forest
of apparitions in bald park meadows
i don't have the heart to call it summer lovewe drank sparkling waterMore Like This
with the sun stripping us down
to our barest elements.
we were the wind,
two hearts in the air,
unanchored and set at sea.
you would wear your hat
loosely like a ribbon
of air on the top of your head,
and smile with your whole face;
you would imagine what i looked like
in only my underwear
until the next hour when your
your hands becoming excavation
shovels, revelling in discovery-
i had liked you best
when you were naked
on my bed,
head between your knees
as you caught your breath.
this was the last time
i felt good about you,
the last that it was safe
to sink myself into your arms.
i have realised this:
i love you,
but that is not enough.
i'll just embrace
the new space
put between us,
and all one thousand miles
that act like a membrane
between two fluids,
wanting little more
than to mesh
it fails to end me,
the paining i feel,
in my chest,
but i am unsure
sent out to sea,
went down in