The auld lang syne.

Fools.

2012-01-26T08:19:00.007Z

Henri Matisse - 'Madras Rouge' (French 1907)

Nothing is happening while

The yoke wrests.

It is, let there be no doubt, a world of shoulders;

Some are light, while some sink.

We stop to celebrate,

Our brakes weak and wet.

Where the color of the wood is lost.

2012-01-22T18:40:00.004Z

The traveler is bound for an unexpected brink,

Where the color of the wood is lost,

And the sun is sunk.

He will not cross the snow.

He will not kiss the woman;

Here, unwarned,

He must wait and resist his own

Silent voice--

The rumble where black lines go.

"The hushing lawns."

2012-01-17T09:49:00.004Z

The book of our bones can be read

In the thinnest of moonlight.

Its grass is black and dampened, and

Printed in bold letters even a child could read.

But there are no children here today.

Over time the crease of the spine

No longer creates a sound.

Shhh, it all says. The words are quietly singing.

Science fiction.

2012-01-13T10:41:00.004Z

J. James Audubon - 'Crane' (French American 1832)

Perhaps we were alive when everything happened--

But maybe not.

This dust that settles on all we live to see,

May in fact be the expulsion of another world--

The venom of their snakes, the wind sweet with cold

And coyotes howling.

Rub your fingers together once they've run through it all.

It is a kind of novel

--cursed with a future.

Love songs for the moon.

2012-01-13T09:07:00.005Z

The shepherds have gone too far into the field.

Their perspiration is flooded with moonlight--

But the flock they share is far away,

Asking one another 'where to next?' and

'What if all our lives we've been riveted to the stars,

eating and falling in love here

Incorrectly?'

Nearby poetry stumbles from a singing boozehound--

His flock was abandoned yesterday,

And the moon, yesterday.

Stand.

2012-01-10T12:36:00.003Z

Joan Mitchell - 'Blue Territory' (American 1972)

I have heard you carrying on while I slept.

There is a way of expression that comes from an

Old place--some of it is laughing and some of it is

Listening to you.

Such a duty it is to gather up these crooked toys

And busted things.

As if from behind a thick, cold curtain i see the playful edge of the sun.

This play pen, this Parthenon, will rot,

And some of it will stand.

Over delivered flowers.

2012-01-10T12:06:00.006Z

Seeing, as if smelling, is engaged with belief.

So soon must you rise on this surface of

Plight, as if bred against its purposes and

In favor of your own,

Choosing the blushing grasp you like with neither caring hand

Nor roaming eye.

(What an audacious thing to do: To choose.)

Readership.

2012-01-10T12:00:00.002Z

Collige virgo rosas

-adage from Latin

It behooves us to last.

The autochthon who prevailed upon us

In books

Tends to a wayfaring herd.

untitled poem.

2012-01-10T09:35:00.002Z

If they must then children will be falling into the ocean.

I've watched them grow up golden as the light all around them diminishes.

It is similar to a chessboard.

I set it,

I set forth. Here

Is where I lie--

In a dominion where the infantry falls upon the jade surf

In the diminishing light.

untitled

2012-01-10T09:22:00.003Z

You were born to steal more.

Make room in your slim treasury--

All the dying must remain undone.

And your purlicue will grow fatter

As you grasp

The bit by its egg-colored collar.

Green hours.

2012-01-10T08:55:00.003Z

There is no honesty in sweetness.

Take afterthought and prior to that, thinking.

Take thinking, take the riches that grow even prior

to growing. Isn't it a world of kids?

Isn't it fast? Doesn't it go by?

It has green hours for parents.

In the throat.

2012-01-09T19:51:00.002Z

Every time you speak I lie in your throat.

There with the hatching blue eggs--

Permanently springtime--

And the cooling comfort of your

Speech--

I lie there. I wait for you.

Sunlight adheres to me.

2012-01-09T19:43:00.002Z

Sunlight adheres to me.

My skin buckles in its smallest corners

And closets.

It's static, roaming. I sweat heartbeats.

All this--I know it seems like nothing.

All this for charity.

All this sunlight adheres,

Here where I sit against the tree.

The grand chill.

2012-01-03T00:45:00.005Z

Winter waits around for the grand chill to begin.

Think--as thinking curries sympathy, of the work you'd do.

You might be untimely and coldly rude,

Flash freezing and stuffing its scuffs and laggard birds

In a belated letter

Or forcing its tears into fluid lakes as they firm.

Or be wild.

Would you let the last orange leaves have their place

In the unexpected mild

Nude?

Would you--since you're a participant, now, wait, too?

The same thing that makes you believe there were dinosaurs

Lets you believe that when this missive comes the cold will come

True.

Something else will happen.

Split the envelope as gloss spills

Across the white sunset seam

Where,

More vicious and important than words

The tongue to seal, actual and flush--

Presses.

This season will--as if in writing, beg of you;

And the grave is not so different from the stars.

Clothing.

2012-01-01T17:34:00.004Z

Clyfford Still - Untitled (American 1957)

We don't want to think about what we'll do after.

Maybe nothing.

From time to time the past is jerked or pried and,

Occasionally, a good quality yellow

Intrudes or just comes over.

But our houses are crowned in fluctuating

Attics. Light.

What to do, what to do...

Quick fixes.

2011-12-27T06:35:00.003Z

We are not unstoppable.

What pours from our leaky faucets

Will contaminate the water of the world.

There are pewter-lined realizations and plumbers'

Quick fixes

But in backing away the system of sewage is clear.

We drain when we fetch what we swear we can hold.

The way we think about things together.

2011-12-22T08:31:00.003Z

The nearest things are often the fastest,

Heavenliest

--and care-free:

But they're cursed.

It has taken us so long to puzzle out our inborn meaning

Bracelets droop on our girls' wrists, and the music that surrounds us

Is a kind of ebullient junk.

Look past the surging welt of a hill where

One will go and be discovered,

And one girl will set her dream against the malignant stars.

The anniversary landscape.

2011-12-20T03:42:00.002Z

"That never get up no more place is here"

-Langston Hughes, 'Graveyard'

The wind is full of breath.

As if coaxing water from the sea, or

The broadest tear ducts,

The Earth must sing.

Such green songs are these--

Bereft of patterns.

They remind me

That this shower like so many showers

Must fall,

Flooded with cheers of defeat. Meanwhile.

The wind is full of breath.

Purity.

2011-12-19T23:16:00.002Z

Please, never forget

Purity--

Not as a law,

But as a blinded promise.

And promise to remain unkept.

And there, upon a song.

2011-11-29T15:17:00.003Z

When upon the wilderness' stake you encounter a feast

You must eat.

And there, upon a song,

You will discover amid your senses and

Turbines

The need to dance.

But this is not a simple observation. And you were augured

In your own breed of impulse and recognition.

And this land is not the same as it was a moment ago.

Two aspects.

2011-11-20T04:56:00.002Z

What we've come to know as surplus

Is only the surplus of wisdom--

So little a focus,

So wild an aspect

--alongside another aspect.

The green preparations.

2011-11-15T03:00:00.004Z

Once the bearing of rain came from a window

And all the world was hungry.

Folks were disturbed that it didn't get more attention--

There was a halt cleft in the program--hard shoulders relaxed, soft.

No courageous acts. Nothing was allowed.

The game stopped.

It was as if the green preparations of sound came to beg at the door

Of a wanton color. Finally--and this is important--

We let ourselves say so,

We didn't know where to look, or how to behave.

Don't let me down.

2011-11-12T13:55:00.003Z

You know when the wind blew and they lugged their gear

Onto the roof.

They played 'Don't Let Me Down' and the wind blew, even though they knew it was over.

They were told to stop

While businessmen and some alert fans gathered below in the wind.

The work of time will come, and the wind will carry it in and carry it away.

Some were across the rooftops, their speech halted

And their hands nearly idle but for the anticipatory joy that they were catching something as it fell

--the wind, and it was over.

The spire sigh.

2011-11-09T04:16:00.006Z

History doesn't sigh. It doesn't tally any of the devastated towers;

It relents to the lasting ones, the obstinate obelisks open

To the batterings of hours.

When nobody's awed 'oh' rises, and none await the designer's hand

Love will stop apologizing, and fall back upon the land.

Love haiku.

2011-11-05T06:50:00.003Z

Small promises are lethal--

The heart floods with them.

Each dizzy yes is a song.

A girl.

2011-11-02T04:56:00.003Z

Music is homeless, it once belonged to heaven.

And it was crucial enough to the winged inhabitants that

--at first, it was allotted a single golden room

Where they could go and lie down.

Then the founders expanded their brilliant notion and a

Palace rose in the cloud, as you'd expect a volcanic island:

Peering on the senses from the sea,

And the riches of the room swelled with

The sleepy dusk.

Composers, though, they loved that.

Never ones for sun tans or girls

They merely embraced the underlighted origin

The ground zero, like it was a bronze idol,

Or a memory.

The other sugars you know.

2011-10-31T08:43:00.004Z

The sweet berth is so unlikely to be banked down--

to spare bank civilizations, To spare our towns.

It must flow up and low and

To either side.

And when it goes,

Such a startling light, it aweighs,

Crests--I must, short of knowing just suppose,

In moonly sucrose.

The lyre bird.

2011-10-27T22:07:00.005Z

Portrait of Ella Mae Morse, singer.

Words have had it unkind,

Taking the better parts of

Centuries to finally get

The standard tongue's bent

And thrive.

Not so for the lyre, a bird, land-bound,

Left here, who was hatched out

Surprisingly as his throat cleared and

Songbook already fit with sound

He corrupts once in his own favor then

Once against.

He knows his own name amid the glossary

Of sounded-out animals, a choir of

Would-have-beens and precipitants of

The echo--the rest of them, they scurry.

To the evolved shoulder--fit as the bird's sharp tongue,

Carry. Your job as opposed to flying is to carry.

The moss ark.

2011-10-23T12:24:00.006Z

Ed Ruscha - 'Me' (American 1999)

The moss ark was built less out of assistance or purpose

Than it was of substance.

Once, as its own soul dictated, it was carried--

Having been sought and excavated,

Then allotted space in worshipping eyes

Then buried.

See, in fact, how gracefully the observer glances to

Read the carved line on the stone,

Then hurries to look back?

Off map.

2011-10-23T08:18:00.003Z

I shouldn't go too far aside of my own foot--

But I was humbled to research and disregard, and push--

I did look. Nobody was at the party.

The only one who

Hasn't found her way home

Was with me.

The vigilant lamp.

2011-10-19T02:16:00.007Z

Laughter is practical. The seam prepares to

Split, but instead it fashions

A zipper.

Watch, now, lover,

Watch how fallow it once was

And how wasn't no longer

Substantially-and neither faithfully, is.

(He is full of dreams to buy your birthday--its candlesful of wishes.)

Empty swimming pool.

2011-10-16T01:40:00.009Z

Ernie Bushmiller - Sluggo Dreams

The depths lie somewhere between white and an ineffective blue,

Drained, but cluttered--Waiting to be raked up.

Neighbor girls who remember the summer

Tattletale on its leafy edge, faces just--

Wheatswollen.

The room they take up is where I was when I saw myself

Admired.

The surface glare broadens like an I surrender flag for the kids

nightly.

It's why I love her,

2011-10-12T07:56:00.004Z

Strewn around these kinks and nicks

And purpling knuckles

Is the memory of the hands with which I

Once prayed.

This parishoner gets spared, and the rocks get treated kindly by the light.

This place on Earth must certainly be Heaven.

The stream-smoothed rocks, one after another glisten--

It's as if they have captured the naive burnishes from Heaven

And amid the cursing flush and grit disbursement they glow.

The moon is beyond reproach.

2011-10-11T06:27:00.004Z

The beating heart serves behind glass--but don't worry!

The glass is colorless and the message is colorless.

Each thing thrives. Look!

The glare is beyond reproach and the palpitations are as well.

The onlookers gather and their humid awe gathers. We turn the lights out

and the moon is beyond reproach.

Mansion.

2011-10-11T06:15:00.003Z

So seldom do we grasp the plentitude of what we admire.

We fall over in love and then we are lost in these vaults--

For the cup and the humbling wage.

Love poem.

2011-10-11T05:56:00.002Z

Wait, it's not that there's new honey!

But I look at the dare of the sun-dried grass

And it's so flush and winding

--and Her!

Is it not new honey stripping me of

what little wisdom I ever had?

I will always beg for you by name.

2011-10-11T03:53:00.002Z

Andy Goldsworthy (U.K. Recent)

The heart is contrary,

And droops when it is responded to.

Cracked in wisdom it hasn't a policy about lying--

Just a policy for being lied to.

Oh.

2011-10-10T18:07:00.006Z

Rembrandt van Rijn - Self Portrait, Later in Life (Dutch 1660's)

Oh,

Acreages and old folks' eras parse the rented landscape--

In each throat a maturing voice drones its

Rich and poor story.

But none are quite like the cock-bell song as it arrives in the humidity--

And goes.

The goodnights.

2011-10-09T15:06:00.007Z

Sometimes it is similar to a balloon--

Each tensile point of its tent is sponsored

By the wild air.

This is also true about the night. Lovers fill them

With wishful "goodnights"; so much goes into each.

Finally one day we'll be forced to rename it;

The stormy "I love you" place will need

Us to call it something.

But what?

Your breath bricks up and floods the floor; the architecture

Falls on me. My breath is lost.

I cannot speak and I wouldn't if I could now.

2011-10-09T02:21:00.003Z

Keys lack wisdom--

Good thing, I lose them too.

This dog is falling asleep beside me.

And my memories, oh what are they?

Just look how the apartment ends and the rest begins.

The crop circle.

2011-10-03T15:45:00.001Z

We have crossed the wood and path

To find a wild mosaic,

One in our aspiration similar to

The one we'll leave.

Niggerhead.

2011-10-02T16:26:00.007Z

"Indeed, I can see no reason, but the most deceitful one, for calling the religion of this land Christianity."

-Frederick Douglass

These specific linen alterations

They don't stain less--

If forgiven

The hum of starch mercy can't assuage the havoc of their ceremonial uses.

Applauding the love of every gregarious grasp, clasp untorn,

These which we seek to protect can neither be created

Nor destroyed,

Nor re-cherished in familiar uniform.

Imagine you, young solider, not so much as less of the hem.

So much as more of what is so faithfully and foolishly worn.

Tomorrow these emeralds.

2011-10-02T15:10:00.005Z

Bo Bartlett - Dreamland (American 1998)

Could it possibly be all the staining love I have seen

Is now before me?

My eyes brim with jeweled tears--

Easily and free--

Each one confiscated from a heart,

Each labeled,

Each as promised restored to the return addressee.

Each, my Love, safe.

Tomorrow these emeralds will grow amid the grasses.

This conveyance of the soul you too shall see.

Their river of time.

2011-10-01T16:05:00.002Z

The beloved bank-side sleepers

And their river of time--

How nearby are either to

The witless hand

As it endures all it touches?

The speechless variety.

2011-09-23T04:51:00.002Z

And isn't the quenching speech of the speechless variety

Like the water you find between beached and distant rocks?

And out of necessity do you not marvel--not at the quality, nor at the timbre,

But differently,

At the dearth of the company you receive.

On the Honeycrisp apple.

2011-09-23T04:20:00.004Z

Sugar, though icily practiced,

Doesn't stand a chance

Against the dissolving search

Seduction makes prior to

Leaving the caramel of pink

For the blue enameled moraines

As they lie patiently, then couch.

Don't let me be mistaken--it suffices

To provide where healing needs its own new swatch.

It endures on a scab, on the pittance of a patch.

The standard.

2011-09-23T03:24:00.003Z

Space contributes to the sum of the antonym

And to the reticule the tongue's gem--

You found this jade-colored abscess--

So much as to touch it and ascertain the stone's fetch--

Its alien gleam you met and rain use the same language:

This is in the passing favor of most markets

And its' currency is useless.

The company you receive.

2011-09-23T01:56:00.004Z

And isn't the quenching speech of the speechless

Variety like the water you find between beached

And distant rocks! And out of necessity do you

Not marvel? Not at the quality

Nor at the timbre, but differently,

At the dearth of the company you receive?

"We walk."

2011-09-22T16:30:00.001Z

Loud song,

It is as much to bend the grasses

As it is a mandate to drown the fortunes

Of the graceless.

Breakfast.

2011-09-22T10:20:00.003Z

For a man named Troy Davis, about whom seventy-two hours ago I knew nothing.

The casualties were grown in the soil of a single imagination.

Maybe one errs to curse, prefers roses, or so and so

Thinks the harvest of flowers has a brain and knows.

But cup away those weak young hands,

And impart in them what they need:

Let leaves concede their rainy awful deeds;

Let the corpulent colors of petals bloom--

And as roses be polite: let those go on and bleed.

Temper goodness in their hungry fingers and unwitheredness.

In the little--relieve them from the slump of roses, the sins upon their noses.

Clear the formidable stems from the table and roses and all they to us mean:

Prepare a place for silliness to express,

And waffles with blueberries.

The month in unexpected rain.

2011-09-21T05:35:00.003Z

The rain adjusts us

Falling on the rednecks--the unusualest of intellects

Neither without the fraying work of purpose nor

Dependent on it.

Trace it like Hebrew or Cajun: is this our dialect

Meager, if unsatisfying and locally abrupt--son to Mother

Other to confused other?

These rare rains are young--they sparkle with buckish cursings

In stride they even the road, the work

The burstlings.

Like an animal.

2011-09-17T16:00:00.003Z

Need knows only need, and withers.

So to the fortunes of youth goes only want.

How like the poor--

They beg to touch the lamp that wealth neglects.

A generation of dust meets the eager palm--A wisdom--

It is a hunger and it is a thirst.

The substance of the prang.

2011-09-17T15:02:00.002Z

The speechless variety must be moved;

It does not move itself.

Think of it as the block in the trunk of the prang.

Every so many thousand years it must be pulled from the shelf of its own body,

And along with the others rearranged--

You know, we err and lose the aspect of our humility in

Raw and witless daylight.

The forest.

2011-09-16T15:51:00.003Z

Endanger the soul with purpose.

These trees and porcelain breezes--

They are heaving and rich with rain.

The shadows awaken new with the sun.

Fight harder.

Local.

2011-09-15T23:20:00.005Z

The impairment of kisses lies in the nearby wind.

My blame disrupts the jade middle of

You. My palm grows with a nearby heart,

Deputized, I have two pulses to take

And look in on.

Bee line.

2011-09-15T23:06:00.006Z

IF being was fat and what it suggests then

The air admiring between us

Would not negate our address--

There would be an edible line,

And I would fatten this line

And consume the weight.

Obsese, ill-fed,

I would arrive.

My belly would impair the white hill and mimic the moon;

You would eat it up and in lying next to me

Be happy in local honey--cupping handfuls--

No cops.

I live for you.

2011-09-15T22:56:00.003Z

The mop at the end of the night is a lot like the curse

Of civility.

Adherent grease lacquers the floor. It's a record.

It's a way of saying,

"I wasn't dishonest; my curse was honest."

My civility you walk upon has left streaks.

And you must at a glance choose and subordinate yourself

To the hour.

September haiku.

2011-09-15T13:00:00.007Z

Paul Thek - 'Dust' (American 1987)

That yee shall be children of your father which is in heauen; for he maketh his sunne to rise on the eiull and on the good, and sendeth raine on the iust, and on the vniust

-The Gospel of S. Matthew, 1611.

The fragrance of rain

Is a mere dream to the tongue.

Taste, prosperity!

Detailed representation.

2011-09-12T21:35:00.006Z

Read closely, you'll see no watery ripples for waves written

In the atlases where the oceans build, rebuild and bequeath--

Nor help from an illustrator's presentiment

of brine terrain danger where

The rocks and white phantoms wait down beneath.

Nor, too, is there no helpful key for the dry land located in between,

For the cragged folds of fool's gold

That lie around--

Impatient too

For a fool's trembling gold-dig to chip away at custodially

And exhume.

The passageway.

2011-09-11T07:37:00.006Z

The itineraries of the young marble like treasure maps with plans. Unedited shoulders,

They tan. And we shed tender leaves: This process

It humbles us.

Find El Dorado once! I'm begging you

With rust that was once furious blood gushing.

With just once.

With the barest once.

Untitled haiku.

2011-09-11T01:32:00.003Z

To the rainy glass

The residue exceeds the

Treasures of kings.

To the drain grate in the street.

2011-09-10T20:36:00.004Z

Wassily Kandinsky - 'Decisive Pink' (Russian 1932)

Breeding macabre and ochre and pink leaves seem to be,

And have come to find you

Where they meet.

Are you so lowly discolored since we mated to create you that

You count them

As you eat?

Lights!

2011-09-09T02:06:00.006Z

An imperilled generation must here have dared and bloomed:

Cursed brood in the simplitude where darkness rouses;

Praised, as well, upon the spark of its flimsy fuse--

Lights!

Managed by the turf of electricity,

Needing to use it--d'you think it might falter or

Otherwise its riches disprove?

D'you think our kindling hands are worthless, or somehow engineered, rude,

Espoused in the gleaming to simply be monstrous

And protrude?

Well, do you?

The finest attention paid.

2011-09-08T17:05:00.006Z

The riches of wisdom and hearsay are good--if half true,

Shot from vibrant tongues

As, quickly, in speaking, they

Glance at their losses.

Disposable amusements.

2011-09-05T17:12:00.003Z

Sarah Bernhardt

The contentious merit of a dandelion remains
Protected by debate.

Is it contagious? Does it pollute the lawn?

That's tough to say: It charms the field,

However. It charms the field and that is final and that is so.

Combed in the locks of its sunny hair
Is the stuff that wins lost children

Well before flowers have their chance.

Joy and a small knife wound.

2011-09-04T17:50:00.003Z

Loudly and to nothing

It springs from the tip of me,
A congestion of ruby leaves and lips and sad rusty suns.

The coolness inches on the glands of the air.

How soon and regularly it visits with its subterfuge of
Blushes!

Creation.

2011-09-04T17:05:00.002Z

The rumor that surrounds you is like bathwater.

Are you bigger than you seem? Is there a joke
About the others your tongue is
Holding onto?

The walls have a heart. I suspect your knees in the light
Have a heart.

The cleft upon the wild.

2011-09-04T14:04:00.005Z

This park closed hours ago. And everyone has since

Disappeared behind the curtaining ripples of voting booths.

Even now, aimless and undecided, I imagine the tepid poetry
Of reason. The sensations flee.

An evening purse of birds and blackened greenery slouches--

There!

It is yawning, as it prepares to sleep.

Rat whines, adhering to glue floor.

2011-09-04T05:24:00.004Z

I wonder if Joseph Mengele, too, awoke in the orange juice sun and wondered if that pocketful of posies in bed
# 4573902

Wasn't really the emissary of love's true heaven.
Sadly, and likely without a feather of regret, he detected in himself

A yes: Yes, courrier.

The discoverers' class.

2011-09-01T01:08:00.004Z

Relieve the seal on this hermetic room--

It is full of candles and ages of smoke.

Incense returns,

The year, too.

Every orange strike upon the dominant sky is

An impression of our disregard,

As sure as if we filled armored skins and

Pried for the redolences

Of those black wicks which lit our anointed failures...

Beauty is a thing of the past.

2011-08-31T11:04:00.004Z

I am rewarded to crouch behind a new mask,

A bracingly ugly crutch--

One as much I fooled around and found as

I pieced together and made.

If it lows it must, in monstrous notes

So beautifully track to transpose--

This thing has a rat's unceding heart,

And follows a dog's unerring nose.

The things we must never forget once they have begun.

2011-08-31T06:17:00.005Z

Resisting is the watchful part of love

That insures certainties.

There is no membership card you get, and beyond casual scrutiny

The unaccredited sunset is simple-mindedly let in:

Here you are...

The gulf you find might just as easily have brayed out in the

Elbows of the real-life lakes, the fingerlings--

A gulf that, as if itself presuming,

Imposes its own full depths purely as an example of

the murky religion of its bathers, its opinions of the sun

Strobe with light--as if charismatic,

Dismissive.

A season begins.

2011-08-29T20:48:00.003Z

This air we replenish--

It was never in danger.

Moths plump on the dust in our closets.

We were eaten away from, but we were never

In danger.

What words you could find if you searched where

Displaced bits of outer space await.

These bite marks represent the fabric we risked

And in the course of a season folded--

But we were never in danger.

The curse of the smoke and the music.

2011-08-29T15:31:00.005Z

The climber was formulated in heart and purpose to

Find the mountain;

Color was bred into the sinew to disturb

Love.

Each impression governs its source, and resembles the

Parent glance.

Sometimes when you speak--above the curse of the smoke

And the music,

I feel I should cover my ears. I don't want to disrespect you.

You have spoken. And I am living in the

Wish to lie empty as if you'd never but still could

If you chose to.

The lease on this place.

2011-08-27T01:13:00.003Z

Old boughs fill custodially with the cost of living;

Get a tattoo so it's clear that

This lot was you.

The occupancy of a bone--were it like an

Apartment is divided in thin wall--

Sinews of growth strewn in pulltabs,

And the wall cracks where the surface

Suffered years of focus and a smile's sag.

So few things truly happen in a vacuum anymore.

2011-08-26T05:23:00.004Z

So few things truly happen in a vacuum anymore.

The cultures are interconnected--and every spice

Of humankind

Heats their beds when they're gone. They have shared

Damp bath towels--

Too bashful to shower as one.

And they share the tried estimations in their eyes.

Invisible always, visible.

2011-08-24T18:34:00.007Z

If in creasing it flirts or flatters to enhance

Your beauty then invite it--dignity too.

But, woman in a hat, now,

Does it enhance you?

Written words in public, there, they--aren't you?

Ducks crossing the atmosphere where you work,

Your venerability growing rich with lines--

Invisible always, visible. I only came here

Because you roused my suspicion and I looked--

My question was loud and ceaseless in the quiet of the

Ford's dream--its watery flue.

Wealth.

2011-08-20T22:49:00.003Z

Put poise ahead of fortune. Even the

Idle bodies draw gazes from eyes too alert to

Rest.

There is a make believe destiny that

Follows lazily the fingers,

Counting.

(Imagine what they could touch.)

Out of the garden.

2011-08-20T04:44:00.004Z

"I only intended that you need never be content with nothing."

-God to Adam upon the Expulsion. Par Lagerkvist, 'The Eternal Smile', p.65 (trans./ed. Hill & Wang Pub., 1971)

The purpose of a white curtain is to remind the fortunate of

The wind that visits the window.

And to the displaced, there is a cheery friendship in the pleats of

Rain.

The mechanics of breathing and getting used to it have only ever failed me

Once or twice.

Drum beat.

2011-08-19T05:45:00.003Z

We're not so fortunate that we can claim to have known

The guy who invented marble. Or

The woman who invented an open book in the grass.

She must've been there looking at herself. What a shadow on her feet!

What grass!

Someone--I guess, approached the table with bashful taste

And said, I don't claim to be Ingres, but I spend all my time thinking;

I invented the way I look at a girl in public.

Today is a kneeling crawlspace in the glands of the wood,

With neither cursive nor curious searcher.

And I am not going to lie, I get lost in it.

Today I invented a door to a house

Just to be thought of.

The disasterette.

2011-08-17T07:07:00.004Z

The lips I remember pickled when she smiled--were too shy

To just bite into a raw onion.

Her teeth were small, and her palate drew from the scud of

Childhood.

I want to impress on you mustard, mother-of-pearl.

The garnishes borne to the fragrant curd of

The curb--

Our blueberries are bulging with noxious wine.

By my apartment.

2011-08-14T09:19:00.002Z

Before you were beautiful you were informative and you were wise.

The herald of moonlight owed you all its money.

I miss the flutes of columns I've never touched

And the wild you.

The end of summer.

2011-08-14T08:59:00.002Z

At the sound of gold we rush forth.

Autumn is nearby and our forts

Lie in ruins,

Blushing and smoldering.

The you.

2011-08-14T08:03:00.003Z

The footsteps of a hurricane fall to Earth.

Her cousins in the rain cry as they too

Fall to Earth.

To succumb to gravity is to be humbled in the most primitive sense. And

Her heart flows across me,

Mass, drums in ceremony, the need for an article when I call out

As we flood--beating.

The carriage of being.

2011-08-14T04:30:00.001Z

A point in space waits just like any other--exposed.

These ex-wives we can love and call pillows...

Play.

2011-08-13T20:16:00.002Z

Handicapped with gauze across your eyes,

Or the jinxed air of a rumor,

It's no matter.

The scud met your tender shoulder, and--green though it all was,

It'll always hurt.

Dear girl.

2011-08-13T20:14:00.001Z

Purpose, what a match you are for delicacy and the turbines of color.

River.

2011-08-13T20:11:00.001Z

The snow that has fallen on the breast of this river

--long after I've forgotten it,

I'll never know.

The eminent culture.

2011-08-13T13:43:00.004Z

First I wanted a life in architecture. I saw the wimpy

Bank--in spite of robberies and recession, its

Place and its parking lot stood.

Other ideas built over that one: Law, heart surgery, nameless thing with

A backpack in Europe, eyes wide with detection and

Eyelids for a bit of a rainy hood.

I was aphoristic when it shut down and the weeds began to bloom.

I was young and stupidly Jeffersonian. I was standing in the room.

On occasion the gulf of serenity has adapted its coast to fear.

Whispers.

2011-08-12T06:07:00.004Z

There are people I've come to know strictly by their whispers.

They starve--their sayings, when they speak, begging for a squeak

Of a rhyme, the mint of rhythm,

The time that buddies up to washed-

Out time.

I know the surfeit of their graves;

I know what the graves they build will look like.

The pattern of chaos.

2011-08-03T07:29:00.002Z

Everything real is incorrigible. Just cast a glance

Out and see what a mayhem becomes the light!

I don't mean to defend the bully,

But I grew a green wood and decent rhubarb in his shadow.

I balked at discovery. When I saw I pretended he was

A rose due for us all.

A breach of practicality and effort.

2011-08-01T12:11:00.003Z

Poverty is a state like no other; it has a way of drawing itself into focus when slack inches in the eye or heart. It isn't as simple as so I go without money, or so I go without food this morning. This state is so I go without comfort to adorn the senses, and with threads of peace and none to spare. The most humbling and humiliating conflict is uncertainty: Who's to blame? Who, too, might breach practicality and effort to refresh the field?

Foolish.

2011-07-31T07:53:00.004Z

The scull is hopeless: It hews at the jade hills of seawater, is

Kissed by the white girls of light--as indifferent

To the oarsman's wishes as it is

To the calculations of his sculpted path.

Each might sing with her voice. Each, like a faint, cleaned-out shell--

Like a beach-foisted whale might, after her sublime fact,

Be joked about.

The bottle on the shore.

2011-07-26T01:16:00.002Z

The sea is built on jerked-around

Risks and pulsations.

I hope what you love has come ashore

And that your threats to go without have

Turned orange with natural humility.

The cobblestone road.

2011-07-24T08:08:00.005Z

Lush urgency carries us on the path,

Giving us occasion to pity those whom we encounter in our light,

Then pass.

But in truth, it is neither haste that has brought us this far, nor sluggish

-ness on the others' parts. Relinquish to Nothing:

This road is--

How do I say this!?

--sometimes shorter and sometimes longer. These cobblestones have

Had occasion to glow with fire and be unquenchable.

Regardless of those dear and foreign passers-by the walk is sacred.

On youth observed in summer, age 35.

2011-07-23T03:39:00.005Z

Below the breeze of envy notwithstanding,

This livid season blooms in the custody of our senses.

Away from the greazy scorch of our work the young greet the Earth

With marvelous insults.

A mist pleases the imagination with its feathery shade and days

Shoot leaves between

Their dreaming fingers--

Inches above the dirt. We have always relied on the grace of youth,

While those sleepwalking hands spring open to clench a

Tuft of their sun.

July.

2011-07-12T16:01:00.002Z

Each sense tells the soul its purpose. The tongue tastes

Everything. And the eye sees everything.

What land have we not fallen down upon?

What energy has not already forced itself inside

And blinded us?

The policy of blood.

2011-07-12T15:30:00.004Z

Take this ordinary heart, for instance.

It is unattractive and beats with uncanny precision.

It navigates in between thin weeds, and hovers in me

On the toughest soil.

Nothing can grow.

So secretly is a moving thing brought to life, learning lessons

As it dies.

The heart and the weeds: tough, tough.

The silences.

2011-07-06T14:10:00.003Z

The difficulty in loss tends to lie less in the silences of a voice as it does in the energetic reliance we foster for the breath that brought our hearts to life.

A lie.

2011-07-05T02:36:00.003Z

Invention spills from the lips of a singer.

Each crease is like a cipher.

The first, and the next and the rest--

Neatly creases.

To believe in any one is to love the purse of everything.