Friday, September 23, 2011

The speechless variety.

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.

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.

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.

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?

Thursday, September 22, 2011

"We walk."

Loud song,
It is as much to bend the grasses
As it is a mandate to drown the fortunes
Of the graceless.


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.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

The month in unexpected rain.

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.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Like an animal.

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.

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.

Friday, September 16, 2011

The forest.

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.

Thursday, September 15, 2011


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.

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.

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.

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!

Monday, September 12, 2011

Detailed representation.

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.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

The passageway.

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.

To the rainy glass
The residue exceeds the
Treasures of kings.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

To the drain grate in the street.

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?

Friday, September 9, 2011


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--


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?

Thursday, September 8, 2011

The finest attention paid.

The riches of wisdom and hearsay are good--if half true,
Shot from vibrant tongues

As, quickly, in speaking, they

Glance at their losses.

Monday, September 5, 2011

Disposable amusements.

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.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

Joy and a small knife wound.

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


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.

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--


It is yawning, as it prepares to sleep.

Rat whines, adhering to glue floor.

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.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

The discoverers' class.

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...