i am really tired. some people
here have flown to
australia and vice versa.
i've seen people come in and
out rooms, unsure
of the reasons why they came.
they fold their hands, unfold,
straighten the buttons
on their shirt and clear their throats
they wait and the things they
want do not appear
like the moon when you need it.
it is always hanging off
somebody's elbow, winking
back at you as you pass
them on the street. i
wonder if you'd ever be mine.
because we want beautiful
unaware that our words
leave them strung up in the air
First Episode: SIR POPE WALRUS and the SEAL CONSPIRACY
Walrus was displeased.
Even though his knighting and Papacy had been acknowledged that morning-granting him the noble title of Sir Pope Walrus (the Male Walrus)-nothing could cheer him after this horrific occurrence: not even his father's Austrian strudel.
The Seal Storage Center (a.k.a. SSC, sometimes confused with the Salivating Symphony Crab restaurant, where Sir Pope Walrus's kin played tubas and then ate crabs) had been broken into the previous evening- when he was eating a celebratory dinner after his title bestowment.
There were no seals left, and seals were Sir Pope Walrus's
after Henry Fuseli's "The Nightmare"
grayscale eidolons weave through the hot air,
streamlined by her deep breaths; her crabbed fingers
crimp the sheets closer, letting night linger
in their creases. curtains part for a mare
shifting through, point-blank eyes seizing a tear
in her mind-space, dragging out a meager
evil; split phantoms' grins sway to sing her
to terror, seeking her thought-feathers: snare
them, tear them. but now they seek her past-tense
sin--the blood she drew, the swart words she cast--
that seeps over her skin, lighting her crimes.
the demons flicker, the gray mare's gaze fenced
on dust lifting from
after Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself"
I float with dust,
swirling through time-gaps
of international clocks.
I drift through cities,
I touch the black 70-point text
of old New York newspaper headlines
and fit myself into editorials.
I glide through the conservatory,
comparing elevator music
with music made by a 7-year-old
training to be the next Mozart.
I hear sounds
made by the old man outside
lips to his harmonica, playing for spare change.
And I give myself to this,
the rhythm of the city.
The rusting pendulum of my soul-clock,
scatters piecemeal remnants of my spirit:
I flit through golden w
There is a note for me playing hide-and-go-seek
in between the wall and the hotel bed,
but the author is done playing
and driving home
because continuing after losing is too hard,
people are still breathing and posing for photographers,
popping balloons, asking for names or numbers
and living, and sometimes life would be
so much easier if they didn’t,
if the world stopped the way a clock
doesn’t tick after it’s dropped off a balcony,
lying there as a small jumble of twisted metal and wooden splinters,
a cracked face with fingerless hands
and all blessedly, gloriously still.