Thursday, December 31, 2009

The archway at Valley Forge.

The archway proposes a tricky relationship.

One sees first the imprisoned sky and

Only then the cause for


It is marble, or flesh.
It was Colonial or

Read up.
Its history is a dwindling flintchip to the other's
Sea bellowing against the greatest things.

Of bourbon and new years.

For my parents.

Throw up your hat, dear.
The Earth is still
And all time spins from its spools
With a comic's measure.

Throw it to the drunkards' moon and their chandeliers
Up to that toppling view of Earth
And to what those brilliant Martians must
See, in their moment of recreation

That ours and theirs might coincide,
Give us a laugh.

Reach to the back of you,
Where my smallest hand was in some distant
Acquainted first and now.

I am dizzy with the sweat and rags of words
The jazz and enamel ground, worn.

Reach back and throw your hat high now,
It is the Auld Lang Syne they play
Where winter flowers stand aright.

Sunday, December 27, 2009

In the body the soul resides.

No virginity suits us
Any longer.
It is impractical to look for a measure of it.

What remains is a viable choice,
Thrashing against the pittance of what we
Believed in,
Called virginity.


Everything I did in my baggage
I did twice
Once for you and bruised in contemplation
I also did for

And nothing is fair.

Do not be distracted, I spoke for and dreamed for
Another. my moongold, profit,

I hope you can forgive me. I hope on the fulcrum

You can appreciate the sum of this frivolous bearance.

Friday, December 25, 2009

Unacceptable loss.

If each and everyone is gone
Then there is nothing.
Blown-through fortunes
And forgotten cadences know us,
They will not tolerate losing us.
If each and everyone is gone
Then there is nothing,
bruised, guttered, full
Feeling every bit
With not a finger to touch it.

If each and everyone is gone
Then there is nothing.

Monday, December 14, 2009

The natural order.

The world is gently falling into place:
We can thank this plunge
For the capital heat,

The spinning oceans
Busy and volcanic.

I can see the untamed system bursting
Into perfection
Where harbors grow

Where what is bereft of the savage mark
Would have been so even in a state of Peace.

We are bloodstained; we did it right.

Sunday, December 13, 2009


With mountains behind me
And a pretty school--
Pretty by today's means,
I got my hands on a copy of
The Divine Comedy,

Only to be overwhelmed by the degrees of

--the degrees of documentation.

Winter rain.

The patient bend
And are the benefactors of Patience.
Love is prehistorical and
All horror is born of impulse.
The patient bend--

Not in error.

This vibrant winter rain--
to get away--
To wait.

On a brim of rain.

One went looking for a marshal
On a brim of rain--

Lost levees
And swingsets below.

No destitution earns its

Though when the waters recede
To the destitute it all lies.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

The edges of certain things.

The edges of certain things
Are serrated,
Eager to pull a
Fleeing sleeve,
A blown lock of hair.
The advantage, despite obvious dangers,
Lies in the possibility that
We might use them to finally catch...

The edges of others
Are undisturbed and smooth,
capable of grasping very little--
If anything at all.

But all possibility
By compass
Flees in that swift direction.

Friday, December 11, 2009


The room was boasting its humane noise:

What went said will be familiar
In the morning
If less distinct.

What went unsaid, on the other hand,
Must wait, packed in,
Unmated, unresponded
But prepared.

So then
All determination is born in the one's forgetting,
And all surprise poetic in the other's.

Thursday, December 10, 2009


What a troubled mind needs--
Him, take him for example, look,
What he needs--it
Would fulfill him.

And to fulfill him would make him lazy. So
Give only what he chooses--

Give him all the grapes he can swallow,
Keys to a nice house,
And a dog.

Announce him, clear a path,
Bathe him.

When his dream sours take his shoulder
Wake him up.

Do everything
As he needs nothing

And has been sated on something similar to less.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Conjoined stairwells.

For Jina Valentine.

Expect a temperature drop
Before a first step is taken.

Just by hovering
Accepting what you see when
Looking over

Down both--

Have a shovel ready. Scrape. Salt
Rub your extremities, one frost against the other.

In the distant pattern,
Either night or convergence
Has made of a single view
Something physically impossible.

The vestiges of support.

For Jack Rose.

The sisters of mercy and Veedon Fleece
Were imaginary

And I have not flown a kite in years.

Seems impractical to not unite
The vestiges of support
Such as these,
Such as we need,

Such as we act upon--
As if their vigilance
Occurred first in the thrushing heart,
Then a moving hand
An invention hushing and
unmistakable in its home,


And then--
Only then,

In the infinite where once the suspicion of creation drew breath,
And we acted upon.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

A brief note:

A while ago you may remember a briefly posted item regarding hiatus. I took a few days off and felt oddly compelled to make news of it. If I had to guess I'd say it had more to do with the dip in a seasonal glut of writings as opposed to any functional want for vacation. Anyway it didn't last.

Well today I announce similar news, if for an entirely new reason. In the past month I have resumed activity under the name, To Stink, To Cheat, To Torture, a platform primarily reserved for prose and essayage. While I assure you the notebooks are filling up at blurry-edged speeds my ability to, as the old proverb goes, walk and chew gum at the same time, is remedial at best. Rather than coughing up some formulaic ten line shitters just for the sake of keeping to date I've decided to pace myself a bit.

Do enjoy the distraction.

Friday, December 4, 2009


This is for whatever it grows,
Here in my palm--

For stems, and schwag seeds
Stub-handed cacti--
Their saltwater--
And stubble-skinned canard

Here in my possession,
Somewhat scarred,

Is it so strange to want a handful of
Something bruising with generosity--

Something the hand must not have
So much as it must endure?

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

To the east.

The whistle blows
And the chapped union between hand
And hammer

Silence is born with the auspices of a baby,
With as much clubbed blood.