Friday, December 19, 2014

Yes, Penelope


What moved in neverchanging space:
an incomplete carnal liberty
light above the circles of the most temporary
Me: a narrator of motion; describer of
invisible fits of reflection and absences
These thoughts- shadows of wind
projected along tracks until
reaching their destinations where
they become gradations of incomprehension.


Weary childman
your jailor joins you- sealike
in the dark bed running aground
here, in Ithaca, you return
to the land of the squared egg and
the bridge to the darker moon.
Wait the brightday, traveler.


Yes, Penelope.
Never so weak as waiting for
the cover of education. A month of dogs, you say?
The matter was all pretended well before you were born
the tragic bed so interesting
the razor, the beard the dirty photo, all
eaten til nothing left but
The dying dress and woven-unwoven face
in a sickened city
fear imagined
poisoned love.

Here, we depart.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

12-Sided Abyss


My selfprolonging impersonation
acquired a force of preordained assassination
it was humiliation, separation and sustained by fallacy
there was a pretense of final equilibrium but
witnesses all came with variations,
their circumstances artificial,
Their outrage concealed.
A violation of existence may have occurred.
An organism interrupted
In its successful imitation
Of inevitable depreciation.
In the end I was conscious
Of sentimental reflection
And intangibility.


Approximately kissed by the sun
Silence became visible.
The Islands of virtue
amid these stars were places where
Apathy was explored and
futility was celebrated.

Midnight, you came in on a wave of inanity
and burned your vessels in stupid triumph.
The yellow furrows of asses,
Inhabitable by steady conquest,
Left these pilgrims mute and lethargic.


Daedalus is limited
his story of Aeronautical performance
Eclipsed by tragic modification.
Witnesses mentioned there were
streamers of flowers
And celebrations by the survivor.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Go Quickly, Go Playfully

If you find yourself
the object of an impersonal ambush
object with lust
deliver a basket of adders wrapped
in an accordion
tell a multi-colored tale
a mustachioed act
played out by a madman ironmonger
orange keyed monkeys in brass-colored nightshirts
We are trying to compute
the proper aperture of forgiveness
prudently returning to the foot of night
disposing of the effects of miscellany
given us by our own dark impersonations

I have boasted of gradual extensions:
marriage, conception, additional intentions
I have observed the destruction of proportion
and consummation
of organgrinders and pissers and condescension
I have witnessed the waning of long reflections
covering the wavering waters
each a longing repetition
I have cooked and recooked these
books accounting for encounter
and produced flakes of infinity and
crumbs of impressionable ability.

Standing in rainsong
collision with the sun
this, the virtue of attraction,
the agents of decrease
in the body constant but
not acute
the amorous expense of effort
an energy of desire?
no symptoms of envy
no calamity of reflection
can blot the radiance of ambition

This is how jealousy turns
to highway robbery

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Departed Wind


What is this quiet moon
that formed the night?
The honored line finds its
way to the sea,
a gift of space, the sun departed all
are in passing;
a departure of the wind.


Irrational holiness
holy of holies
our trousers possessed by unsubstantial
inertia- Onan the departed!
but what of the burnt-smell warmth of
your mourning bed?  Lost in
The wilderness of a stained mattress
and uniquely folded forces of space-time?
We take the perilous journey to invisibility
and back again traveling through
those irreversible echoes:


Retreat, Moses! with those
temporary impressions of imperfection
can Armageddon be so brief, so unforeseen?
Can you call forth the possible fathers
made of material failure?
Only later would you accelerate
toward some silent atonement.
Only later comprehend the artificial light
of god.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014



Remembrance is fool’s juice
the dead have no business here, now
there are no maps for the commerce of advice and
scripture is one way to practice amnesia
He who narrates is usually the last to eat
the listener will always avoid the center,
and allow the years to be removed
from the conversation.


To our surprise on aging we find
age is the reason for discardment
the rate of growth among the mendacious
is perforated with the debt of doubt,
we allow ourselves our decomposing
out of respect for the lunatics around us
We are consoled by the thrown-away the
vagrant the destitute and fraudulent.
We will not allow ourselves to be dissuaded
but instead we will be the laughingstock of the deceased.


Number eater your days are rendered
the wind and the wild tell your story
from market to wall your defects
become increasingly multiplied your
character petrified, storm-swept.
You are the killers of necessity
replacing aspiration with desire
the forbidden with the irrational
You are a dead sea.