Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Near Bedford.

Stop and smell the pot ash and seed hulls in the dirt--
The enamel of your ancestors

So wild and proliferate, that fields
Teem with hotly colored flowers to compete.

A sun that once roved orangely across van Gogh's eyes
Distills the corner, by a truck and your waiting friends.
Stop.  Waste everything;

Now, I want you to look at me.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

And the hill.

Look at the wolf I made with my hands,

these fingers
are slow

And hungry.

But trained. And the hill.

And each hand must wait, also,
to be distinguished from action,

As though in essence it each somehow bribed the lower end
By reaching out.

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

The symphony of brows.

Must the dessert be last?

I remember reading a story about a Pacific island
Of people who lived almost entirely on

Their sledges fell on gaping wood.

And girls looked like paused lips,
In hammocks.

And the sun shone even at night.

Sweat adulterated the workers,
all of whom sang,

"We must in, We must out,

Almighty, we must do both, for You,
And never stop."

Monday, February 18, 2013

The carbors.

The carbors left the meeting today,

But no one is sure when.  They just shulked off.

Everything sucks, and peals, as if left by a leaf of golden


The hog will patiently ask when of the knife;
And peace, to the jacket

Of which unsaid eyes

Have asked nothing,
will rely.

One: look at me, now-- find help for clean up. The Other: Find the carbors.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

The cherries.

You have never been invincible
But you hear them--

cherry blossoms, awake, in
Your sleep.

These are the last things
The Sun lets you see--

and it's not the way they are.

But you move, and everyone
Is moving,

Crowding the table by the valentines,
Spitting the first cherry pits
Into melting snow.

Happy, lips in duplicating bows, hands rose,
Spilling bowl upon bowl

Fetching a glint
When a dearest droplet
Is at hungry stake. You can't say goodnight,

But you want to say goodnight.

Saturday, February 9, 2013

The Chinese Anthology of Poetry.

Your plum stomach squeals at a scratching branch
And it sucks at you.

Soon, the other carbuncle, the Moon:

Will be swimming with your grassy hair,

Dyed, and late for almost everything, too.


It doesn't broaden your accommodations that you have a tail;

The vestige can always be folded, and stored.

Safari plaintiffs will wait their turns
And our houses will be redone in cozy zebraid mattresses--

You see, compassion waits while looking at a lion,
And at a leech, somedays.

No one ever wrote a letter to a faraway wall--regardless of the
Stampede prints saying what it was--

Saying it was a plea's barricade from the branding light--

As though in being snorted at and
Shared specified commonality.

Friday, February 1, 2013


With license the bridge can be passed,
And safety will ensue.

Meanwhile a cursive flock
Explains a miracle while

Helmets and straps fall--

And while no one is looking at them.

This lime tree bower my

I am not immobile,

So the world must conjure its own stale magic and stiff dirt:
It must spin without me--I won't wet it---

So that when I give credit
I can

Assure my ribs of
A Song

More profitable than a wind-purchased song.

What grace has been forced to encourage.

It takes a few hours of fisticuffs and moping
to change the disposition of a mirror--

But look!

Your gray bangs look different than when the faun
Brought you

To the Bus stop.


There is a sweet smoke that comes from being different from everyone.

And a lambent tickle.

Herders look at you longer than they would ever anyone, discussing fitful progress,

Or Satan in the presence of a lit match.


A curse upon the straws of any broom
That might sweep away the rye

From a stone.


One step on the branch and then down,
One step in the mud,

You're getting the corrugated picture of the way we eat.

I'm happy.

I see nothing but light.

If you're nearby, maybe, looking
At the same spot, and wondering

Why shadows don't register it's

Sing Hosanna.

"AND they that preceded us and the others were singing Hosanna, a blessing to fortune, in the name of the Lord." -The Gospel of St. Mark 11:9

Some days,
I disfigure You by
Saying your name, as though
Saying the name of a woman who was near

Was no different.

But I remember You--powerfully, in the game smell (in a pile of shit.)

You know the way a stream blinks, and in blinking
Very nearly prevails upon its host at the fortune of sunlight;
You are nearly nothing to me.