Mar 30, 2008


Dear Diary,

I am your second owner, and this will be my only entry
before you begin a life less nondescript: a brutally
volimunous sublimation within furnace.
It seems your previous author, and I use that particular
in its obligatory sense, held pretensions of adequacy,
and what else is there to relate?
They are gone.

          They may still live (of course! (twenty-two years
now since)) but your abandonment, testimony
if not indictment against any list of listless days:
   June 16th, for instance: Jason wants to fuck me so bad.
He watches me at practice. He's never not looking!
Carrie says blow him already and let her watch.

December 18th, the year prior:
I love the beach! I'm soooo fucking fat in this bikini--
Need to get money from Mom. Exercise!
Your penultimate reads simply: Homework. Willa Cather.
   O, you shall burn and I rejoice, and reconsider
stupidity as finished iron-work: cumbersome to bear
and to the eye, facile; reconsider

          Rust as slag in finer forge; that every whimper
bellows warm; dream your ocean one of vapid,
tender-tongued gods that savor you still; heat the kettle
upon your fire to praise by its scream what virtue
you may have held; know you as youth, the only genius true--
Mourn all that is marker in this tomb.







Mar 28, 2008


They say, Write about what you know. Does one then
write without thinking of what one knows without thought,
for why overcomplicate what one knows, with thinking
extraneously wrought? Doubt anyone knows. Doubt

like a rock. A rock like venom. Venom syrup. Syrup
what?  Lose the thought to find the wonder. Sap
what?  Find the thought to kill the blunder. Rocks
in the springtide, of which the count grows higher

and the crop by the bucket is as much ocean as it is
mountain, as it is rain slowly rendered imperfectly
as horizon broken down and breaking, redeveloped
in membranes of churl-tipped leaf-winged pupae drawn

up greener, transmuted in all the arrogant wealth
of potential, ignorant and muted but for the assymetry
of dark mirrors; each shadow, a catch of the seed
of winter. The trees muscle; the air openly nerves.







Mar 26, 2008


She punches nine. He presses ten.
In the frame of air between them, worlds writhe.
Neither will see the other again, nor notices
that the descent begins with the dimming of light,
which she comments upon with a sigh.
You sigh like my cat, he says. No,
perhaps I once did, but it's long been a lake ice thaw
quiet in its fracturing into darkwater fog.
Minnesota? Michigan, but not for years, not since I thought
I could do better than what I saw. Did you?

Remake what I saw?  A nod.
No. He turns to better look at her. You know,
the last conversation had like this, I was some dumbshit kid
fresh from vacation in Vietnam, on layover again in Hong Kong.
Never been. Well, what I mean is,

This is me. Hey. Forget America. Done.







Mar 24, 2008


Think about this: don't think about that
which does not concern you, has no concern for you:
the spotted yellowness of what is nearly moth
in slanted pillars of mid-morning light--

Think otherwise. There is money to be made in wars
and love to be digested valorous in peace.
Both are empty. Empty as the grasp for air in the sea above.
Oh, there is meaning, clearly--

Rethink the thought that claims you. Angels know words,
but prefer the use of tooth above the tongue.
Yes, these are lies. Look how they fall within you.
The forest is mighty; a stag steps clear--

Of no concern to you, remember?  Think upon death:
How unsteady the starlight in its eloquence.







When the batter from the bowl is cleaned;
the city lights struck;
a half an alter-ego double-crossed;
crickets dead neath stones of perfect tumbling;
a falcon matching eye to the rooster;
bricks of blue;

When the hummingbird is pinioned by the fork;
a semi-trailer anvils;
breasts fall sweetly to then fall away;
letters fathers sent to sons are lost;
a yawn occurs in the perpetual intermission;
a bear in a jacket deceives you;

When consequence is no longer virtue;
virtue is soft.







You put Tai-Pan down. You are emotionless.
The last inch of Jack beckons. You are amphetamine.
You break the glass against the wall. You are diligent
in observation. There is a stirring within the wall.
You are envisioning the greying of insulation, nails
within two-by-fours, moonlight somehow.

It is a rat. You think otherwise. It is all glinty knee
and ichorous hook. You put your good ear to the chest
of the room. There a giant. You drop to one knee.
A stone hits the window. You find in this no reason
to discontinue. You hear the fire of a car on the road.
Whinny of a horse, breath-white in dark stable.

The sea is in alarum. You are content. The context
is blessed horror. You put Tai-Pan down. Congreve.







averring the inevitable
abetting error
and arrow; wings

dissipitate mildly
a coronation



there was a boy who died.
he was three.
he climbed out onto the fire escape balcony, while his mother
      watched tv.
watched, yes.
it was night, and they were poor, and he saw a moth.
night, yes.
he slipped, and kinda bounced, and fell off.
he fell on some young lady, dislocating her shoulder and breaking
      her collarbone.
he was three.
his mother seemed to recover, and had four more kids, after that.
but she divorced her first husband.
and he later married the young lady the falling child hit.
neither was ever charged.
more sad.



silly sorry for silly
the universe
creaks without a crack

hear hand over ear



at their parting
in mockery
of what was

i keep
i keep

the melt and
hardening of plastic
in each chest

heated feet
in cordial layers








Mar 21, 2008


The window overlooks the river
  dark with rain. There a boy.
The fish are afraid, he believes.
  With this belief, his steps
are carefully placed. No mad bear,
  no wounded deer, no warrior
flown; a boy walks there, in dark
  rain, under riverbank trees.

The lightning ruptures air. What
  does he think; that thunder
sutures the massive chemistries
  of cloud; that bodies of God
are born again; that he's worm
  enough to treble-bait? It is
hard to say. A boy walks there,
  on ivy path, under oaken leaves.

The window overlooks the river,
  open to this land. There a hunger
hooking prey. What is stealth
  in all this noise; what is the rain
to steely scales upon a string?
  There a boy, aging with knowledge
plain, fishing. Here a stove,
  silverware and heart, awaiting.







Mar 20, 2008








Mar 19, 2008


the rain glistens amethyst       the night
held-halved upon the glass       by desklamped constellations
                                              seeming candle-lit
caught in place and steady       in mild wellings
as the hunting eyes of men      anonymously piercing
                                              gifting death as reprieve
a cleansing for the throat         upon the tongue
smoothly clear as highland        tributaries
                                              as stars
respun upon a dew-hull fog       over prairie







Mar 18, 2008


the ground exhales
    a newborn's skull
thru flaxen hair
   at winter's edge
a sigh that sows
   flattened golds
to bloom again
   greased with mud

o, green-eyed child
   dun and feral
wailing raw an art
   to contend to name
the deaths of life
   be they age
or be they flame
   or by drowning spring

an inhalation
   the world retaken







Mar 12, 2008


the walls are the sky are a basin
closer than ocean; the nearest rooftop
evaporates starved for light;

drinks are poured are spilled are drunk
are forgotten; branches broken nest
methodically breasted noise;

the car is a sphinx without answer
without question; the curiosity of a fox
ambled down this walk years ago;

truths are now spiders weight machines
seeds of persimmon; two oarsmen war
over horses north a full mile;

and we hold each other with fingers
and ribs interwoven







Mar 11, 2008

I want my cock against your throat, knife cut unto itself;
hand at ophidian flank of obsidian hair, cording noose;
palm on the hemline of your thigh, nail to arterial pulse--
to kneeling kiss and vivisect, tongue as scalpel to bruise.

I want my cock pressed to clit, lighter than thumb to eye;
fingers like shades in the sweat of Lethe, of Cocytus;
teeth as armies disinterred and risen ravenous and blind--
to incarnate war of orgiastic bloodlust and lost soul-love.

But you sleep, and the moon is half-lit with old wisdom;
you dream, and I dream your dreams are of rising oceans--
that you rebirth yourself in the dim slough of nonsense.

And in my mind you wake, as I study casts of fallen shadow;
you say not a thing, but unclasp your wings of marrow--
the room becomes a tree, and you a fruit unnameable.

Mar 9, 2008



hammerheads in my throat trim-
wick-trim the bonehall's wall-
skin and jellies of fume gelatin
and gin to spin high-contrast
snow in the nightfield's flint-
subcutaneous-eyed soul and death








Mar 6, 2008


beneath the lake

that is now a city of little banners
mannered in yellows and oranges

ice shall grow like swords of coral
as above the sky above

these alleys short and narrow
black windows blinding bright in sun

which will reach below the lake
by fold to flake the dusty flower

with all the memory of bells







alabaster with a roar of blood beyond the register
of moribund men
she reclines in her palace of regard and poised
in counterpose to prose
the small of her back a continent of cloud
under moonlight
as salient daggers star upon the intumescent shale
of whalesong mind
yet dredging neptune's krill heart







Mar 4, 2008


the ground is wet, the dirt is dry under the rowboat
of painted maple, its four layers of white enamel flaking
year by year onto cinderblock props, which is a lie
of course but one of course once true that may again be so,
tho i won't hazard the March rain tonight to overturn
the dry-docked, land-locked umbrella that draws the hide
of doe-eyed hare and suffers not for being there







       recorded at 3200 fps

forces the sclera into a landscape
of frosted marble
the cornea into a sun-facing lobe of an idiot-

       planet distraught with lightning math

into eclipse by an impossibly vast
warmth more ablutionary than supernovum.







Mar 2, 2008



the red wheelbarrow
that is not there
I set against the tree
that somewhat is
as its leaves are not
unless you count the wren
here again today
but not right now
just yet.







a thing happens
bouquets of apple blossom burn
and cherry;
mirrors crack glutted with youth;
a country town dissolves into the open sky
of prairie;
blackfish rise mummified and fingered;
dogs refute the estrus of foxes;
horses and lawyers
dust outsells whiskey.

a thing happens
a marblecake attempts to eat itself
and succeeds;
a mayfly conquers an inalienable sea;
siamese twins clone degrees of referentiality;
the moon complains
of stress;
one eye in ten thousand dreams;
an apple hatches a dragon of less
and less;
both knife and bowl lust.

a thing happens
instruments sound in the root of earth;
the wind in wreckage violas;
the wind speaks names meaning
a man recognizes nothing;
the snow melts like irises
in sleep
in slurry
in craziness that allows you to forget
your breath.



analog to smoking


                with the ease
      to recreate

                    i choose