Apr 30, 2008




Forgive God when everything is beautiful in my head.








Genius sears with knowledge
of much foolishness. Caravans

without metaphor and without tide
arise. A piano plays a cartoon.

Wisdom, is the vanity of the holy.
I am archaic and language is arcane.

Hear the sounds of a universal.
Word is pliant and is to be applied.

Death, does not arrive in time.
A scoundrel plays baboon.

Calliopes collide; collisions collude.
Death, this air that takes my energy.

Love, which is Death, confused
by its own beauty aflame.






Apr 29, 2008



the difference between wit and wisdom is:
wisdom needs no context.

wit is for the hell of it.








take what you don't mean
and then say it as you would say it
if you meant it.








Happy birthday. Tomorrow and last year.
Happy birthday. Green of rice and weathervane.
Happy birthday. Patent office office patents.







always in the back
of your mind focus
upon the one good
you will do with life.







sadly inspired and aptly conceived
a fire in the deep sea lures dead men
with open chests that breathe
the choreography of fluid springs

that exist in a time without mind
this is not eden there are no trees
this is not hell there is no bread
this is not purgatory this is a list

of a dead branch with spider's silk
a hive of honey devoured by locusts
a half-life to every confusion

the stars are out:
where do I flee? how do I go?
these volcano undersea







decide yourself.

esoteric; erotic.

consonant; inconstant.

a goat herder's son.

a stone walker's hoof.







Apr 28, 2008




Three of you are AIs. Two of the AIs are two of you.








everyone knows
everyone is wrong
the idea

is to generate affection
which produces health

thru a serendipity of nourishment
from the place that one dwells

let the dreamer not awaken






this is my map.
these are the directions of my map:


my map is here.
these are the treasures on my map:

a false pearl

i am a map.
hear now the names of my map:

haphazard ellington
fitzgerald semaphore

this map it is my own.
i am here.






dehydrated swamp
where evil
is not knowledge







I tried to die.
God denied me.

One day.






  Mary shellie

the poet's a perpetual frankenstein
of theories, motion symbols and lines
that hurtle without hurtling
to hurt without hurting
and I am awed by shel silverstein






When you speak to me,
speak to me as tho you are speaking to genius--
or I won't understand.
And I will do the same; of course,
of course. What movie was that from?






a boy
walks the bases

goes home
the night is out

or later than it was last week

the grass is cold
in his shoes

he gets into his car
and just sits

nothing speaks
says everything






the universe is only as large as any man
can think it, if it's thinking that they do.
like scientists in their whitest of cloth,
over their tables and dreaming at 5am
on a Sunday morning, pivoted upon
simple machines, and levers, and
the thought is lost.







a pun upon fun
a faun

thinks you are mother
a pun upon sun

the moon readjusts reason
a pun upon dun







Apr 27, 2008




to be or not to be
is the answer.







If you've read Joyce, there's no need to go to Ireland.
St. Patrick's stave was called Prank.
Serpent's Army Surplus

isn't tatted on any arm in Dublin;
unless it is. How profound.






What's the strongest single thought a simple man may make?
What shot glimmers? What quakes?






Finnegans Wake was a sight without reflection
upon an endless ocean,

nor am I that drop of rain or snowflake at your step.
Earwicker was Joyce;
Joyce, Earwicker.






Sleep for reasons that act as spell.
Wake for loss of senescence within reason.
Wake for loss.






admiration and pity       a teakettle
impartially screams       for tea






Apr 26, 2008


Water flows quick in the desert:
that second sea of scorpion and spider;
an inch of uncapped whiskey, in an hour
in the shade, dissipates undropped.






I'll rarely be normal, and very often bore.
My mind is unhinged, yet hingeless and closed it vaults.
Flesh flickers, thinks itself a dream of life.
Without dreaming

this or that, just dream.






There are no libraries to that which I have forgotten;
Where the library is, I have forgotten.








Approximating Zen:
a poet ends.









You have to please yourself.
Grasshopper; butterfly--
Snow will dust and dust
snow at long end.






the utter clarity that is the sadness of my life
is like a bridge the abyss itself spans
and light does not strike anything colder.

or warmer-- these things imperceivable
and subject to change. even sadness
blurs with momentum. clarity skims.

comets of diamond fall against the sun.
forgotten roses rasp for joy.






Apr 25, 2008


The conductor proscribes that the perfect critic
would only listen to the musicians tuning instruments,
and then leave with the music unheard.
Once, April surprises everyone by doing Thelonius.
She's allowed eleven minutes; she uses eleven
and a quarter. A French horn harrumphed.

  He allows her eleven minutes more.
  Now she's really expected to do it, to nail it in blood mist
  and bloom. Her eyes flutter and then she squints,
  raising her chin:

  Alpha-bits and libraries
      won't let me in
  the wind as it whispers without lie.

Harrumph, harrumph.







The child at the bottom of the swimming pool
in the middle school was what was heard in elementary--
because he was forced to swim when he couldn't
and the teacher made him drown.

There were investigations. A lawsuit was filed.
They did not win, but settled out of court.

Fame is all there is, of fortune;
of misfortune, just the same.







Apr 24, 2008


Tragedy without second thought
the whole act

extemporaneous flourish subsumed
by the device of voice

at plot within its plight







The audience reacts in certain ways:
Shoot them with a gun, they scream
after it is done; shoot them with two
in the same scene, ten percent will

quietly curse, often you. The third
time the bullet rises to the chamber,
they watch. At this point, we leave
the actor to decide the twist in plot.

Some like messages to change
direction; “Kill everyone.”
Some prefer the finer cleft
of differentiation. On my braver

days, I might tell you to turn it
upon yourself. Today I won't.







elegant detachment--
a chandelier of thought--

moonlight upon dust






on a pine cone--

moonlight dinner






Apr 23, 2008


if the poem has a hammer
let it direct the nail

into wood, bone and stone.






you do what you do:
you take a bath

inside a walrus
that you eat

to remind yourself
you are animal, too.







the mind is squirming
like some fucking buddha

stoned immaculate again







the driver







if every word compounds
then this poetry:

who is friend of your foe:






write to rachmaninov
about the rent--

it's overdue.






Apr 22, 2008


The quanta disperse unevenly
into complete deterioration
until they realign--

a Hell of a long time.







God did and did not make the apple
on the Tree: God, that moving thing
left a space where the apple was to be
and instead left a place for God unmade

a pharaoh king; a chimpanzee--
the maggot of the moth--
time to a junebug--
a god with a clock--

We will die in the morning, I believe.
We will die with our arms, cut off.
We will die with dignity or we shall not survive.







A Play at Pretend

And if life devises a way
to last for eternity

it goes mad
and begins again--

What else can you do
with that kind of focus

upon yourself-- an apple
and all that apple negates

by virtue
of some dull and soft

of being itself.







Computational Singularity

To greater love to god I think than anything otherwise.

He thoughtfully made the universe, a conundrum--
in his own image, and as himself.

Does justice exist, of any sort?
In that but we die.

Misdeeds of blundering flounder.
Accusations of what is right, in every one.

You do what you must.
Death comes, but once.

If you were god, what would you say?







3 am

the nightbirds chatter amongst themselves
o, gibbous moon   the sun is out

and it is spring
and it is true

I could not imagine it
yet it is unreal

how they sing by light any fool can see
and I find my inspiration blind







the apples bloom, and the narcissus
wither; the sea returns and the beach
revokes; enlightenment is an old idea
to a bird; despair is a common well

the thirstiest drink of; the root destroys
the gravel; the bottle breaks and the glass
is empty; a green bud here that reddens
pink and not yet done; here is a stone

that is also shell; the day is bright and night
is of no matter; rain will fall and cloud
perfume; a bed for you wherever you sleep
for whatever you dream of; o, love--

a nest holding nothing; the apples fallen
round dandelion white in second bloom.






We gave the wounded man a cat.
A Persian that sprung in his lap.

A woman elbows thru the swinging door.
Her arms raised, as tho about to perform.

Throw the mug and bowl at glass.
The night is alit with fire.

What air there is, is lukewarm.
Dust upon a finger.

We saw the cat again, a flash of red.
The wounded man we shot.






anemone fur
lower right: slash of ember red


a frog
a new pond


I've no idea how to be honest, writing what I don't believe.
And so I am insane, to believe anything I write.







Apr 21, 2008


word was music was understood heat

where gods
are seldom seen awe-inspired
by their own monsters

floating in filtering out.
story was a tree
of make-believe in caricature
of the world.
the princess was you or

someone you've come to leave.
this curse
will not be broken

apple of seed.







Apr 20, 2008


An old pond a frog jumps. Sound of water
and the scent of rain. My nose twitches
and lightning strikes the nervous flanks
of commanded horses. O, bay. O, woe.

Fishing, looking at the moon deer look to.
The sound of traffic, and scent of rain.
My nose itches and I do not sneeze
by biting my lip. They turn when I piss.

Starlight, as well as planes; night
and satellite-- They die with me
before they die, like nothing I can
really say, anymore than-- Nothing, really.

Gojira jumps into the chair I do not use,
and sits. And sits. And I go away.







Apr 19, 2008



            31/10-- car salesman
                with a turkey









Apr 18, 2008


turning haiku in your head
is no way to go about life,
son-- it's not answer wanted,
but reason, of which there
're none by any stretch
of rationale, as it itself
is imaginative cohesion.

jump the sound of water.
















O, Dandelion

giving you words
so that May

says to have said
that you've said

is so stupid

and should not have been said.






Imagine Mohamed were sinless; or Jesus, either one--
        Epitomes of virtue, no ill will in either one:

They buy fish at the market; venison, veal; either one
        passes coin greased with sweat and blood; either one

passes men who have raped and murdered; either one
        looks at a woman neither beautiful nor pure; either one

looks at a woman and sees beauty, purity; either one
        stands in a doorway when the hard rains come; either one

stands aside to avoid the joyous sway of children; either one
        tells a joke after which there is no laughter; either one

tells stories they do not believe fully; either one
        drinks water and worries the ferocity of stars; either one

drinks wine and wishes more for himself in silence. Either one
        has done nothing but good, or one is neither.







Apr 17, 2008


Take Hiroshima:
           the mind is blown

           the future-perfect

memory panning
           a flash of darkness

neither total nor complete.
           Take violins:

the elbow that scrolls
           in the air

instantaneous monuments
           of some other

moment now also this.
           Take anger


your misdeeds.
           There is a poison

like a pollen:
           the light weeps.








The saxophone is an instrument of the city.
Telephones pole and wire to neck empty buildings.
Everything quotidian as the brass of gold.
Either night or the day too bright to look at directly.
The birds do not flock.

Clavicles clatter on the floor.
Old men build less and less until the center is razed.
Tenuous the brick in its beauty.

The day pipes a solemn song of sojourn.
There is worship of fire and water and of clay.

The saxophone speaks to no one.
The beach is overwhelmed by wave.
This is castle and this is grave.
The saxophone does not say.








    grandfather's cereal,
            boxes in a row.











Apr 16, 2008



America is gone. Where did it go?  Nobody knows.
South America?  Never there. Asia and Africa,
miniscule and majestic. Antarctica's white,
even at night. Australia's

        in a book, in a letter
        in the silver that is time
        moon stars ocean

        rock dirt peat







The Grandest Wish

What would be your grandest wish?
There would be a table, of oak, handmade

by a Chippewa. A long table, a viking boat
in a room so broad the walls can not be seen

within a darkness of distance. The table
is well lit by a fire, at which the head

sits. Is that it?  A sewing angel drops her thimble.
I don't get it. No, neither do I. It's just

what I'd wish. You'd wish an image.
As if it were vision.







Once upon a time,
a Granter of Wishes disguised himself as a fish,

teeth of worms within his belly.
Once upon a time,

a king dressed as a commoner,
that he could go fishing at some secret spring

before summer chored away in boredom.
Once upon a time,

a Granter of Wishes was caught, and by a king.
Think of such a thing.

His daughter was ill; his kingdom unwell--
he too was only human.

He returned to the spring, night of the third day.
A Granter of Wishes is a fisher of kings.








show me the novice--
memory is dim

and the cold night clears








Take a bass guitar.
Make it trill.

Palms upon woodblocks.
Staccato, contrapuntal.

Keyboard chimes.
A melody of parting.

Glitch. Static voice
echoing Morpheus:

Bass guitar. A humming.
Organ. Sibilant whisper:

Bass guitar. Whistle.
Tone of a phone.

Glitch. Chimney air.
Clanging piercing.

Bass guitar. Voice:
The moon juxtaposed

with self-loathing.
Stars make light

and it is too dark
for conceptual re-

deployment. Power
lines the air as it

seams and unseals
makery within this

of nowt. Glitch.

Bass guitar.






Apr 15, 2008



I wish I were in a calm place,
      O, hydraulic hiss of the garbage truck,
O palimpsest of Olympus, O juggernaut
of bacteria, O untired beast, O disdain.
      You've collected me too late.

        O garbage men, work as it is play--
O sweetly soured stench, cavort by morning hours;
Hunger, O growler of the cul-de-sac--
You eat again today,
      though all my sundry is sundered
  in this little bag:

O lock of hair; O wedding ring.

O gust upon eternity, that waits.






Humility is always false.

Indelicate essence.


I dream of white obelisks in red-monotone.

Pride writhes, returning upon itself.

In the town of Mayfair,

a turnip was as good as a house,
if that house were half as good

as the brook divine in its subterfuge
as it

vined and redefined what was forest
and what was ground.

Wrongly Wrong

Wrong Wrong
Wrongly Wrong and

Wrong Wrong


Dramamine Chasm,
a Polish jerk who wants to take everything apart,

so that you may learn how to put it together

and you want to fail.

Two towers high as the planes that in autumn






The writer

      The writer writes didactically, tautologically
      as though the act itself were euphemistic youth.
      It is a casting of stones, a breaking of bottles.
      Flames rise from the bones.

      It is all beyond description. (a damned soul
      who could not speak of it, but only moan--
      he told me so) There is no plot, and the plot
      -thickens- while characters bore.

      The day is green, and mercilessly mercurially
      miraculous in reliability. The practical sun
      -hangs- within impractical sky. Orange peel
      dries in the ashtray. Nothing more.

      You are given no choice but to look anew
      at the complexity only a simpleton enjoys.







The fish

      What kind of fish?
      Bluegill. Pumpkinseed.
      Northern pike.

      You talked of the water.

      The current withstood.

      You withstood the current.







An invention

    An invention should change the world.

    By alleviating a need.
    By discerning the indiscernible, by convention?

    By creating ease.
    Your invention, it will do that?

    No; and not the opposite, nor anything in between.
    What will it do, then?

    Pull the soul from green acorns.
    You're talking need.

    I'm talking how to speak like city trees breathe.
    And this invention, will allow for that?








Apr 14, 2008



May you lose your name
might seem like an apt curse
for the Devil, but he didn't grin
when he said, I've yours.

Where would that be?
was my retort.
And then he did grin,
and pointed to his heart.







Apr 13, 2008


A cursory, where little curses grow,
is where misery is nursed, a cur
that worries she may starve; a wolf
feather-fine as leather in her fur--

A tuft of wool upon her brow; a snout
that sniffs the dryness of your throat
while wry eyes cut across your suit,
colder than a cat's, darker and less

Subtle; wise as any bitch's bastard
runt without name, not enough tit
to go round; a cunt of whimper, growl
and howl. This is how you tame her--

You bite back harder than her hunger.
You release her, making joy of doubt.







Apr 12, 2008


Church League

Who knows what inning it was lightning struck twice.
My Dad, "Nedley" by the pastor's choosing, was batting
and so what, if it's Tuesday night softball, and you're
trying to tear the glove off the kid with whom you're
playing catch?-- You stop to watch the game for a bit.

And he was playing without his shoes on, and I sighed,
putting my fingers in the fence, behind the plate.
Not a hit all season, a perfect triple-oh, three little
circles all in a row. I want to say he fouled one off
but I do know for certain the bat was heavy aluminum,

his older brother's, silver where the blue was torn.
Anyway, being a lefty, he tore one off to left, and
the grass in the outfield wasn't so much unmowed,
as it was overgrown, this being the city's and not
the high school's park. And he tore one off to left,

right; you could hear it whizz in the thick summer
humidity, and he's already past first, and looking
back up, whoever's in left is twelve feet from the ball.
And somebody from the stands yells Go, Nedley! as he
moves around the shortstop, waiting for the throw

from left, and left hits the cut-off man instead
of throwing to third, and my Dad's decided to hell
with it all: his steel boots are his only pair of shoes;
he'll never get over his brother's death; and of his kids,
maybe. And he slides and the ump is screaming Out!

And the catcher drops the ball.







Apr 11, 2008



Throwing chickens at bear traps

isn't of much use, admittedly,

just, that fucker jumps shut

almost like nothing at all.


No, not nothing-- et al.

We made them. Who is to say

they were not to be made?

And we unmade them.


That took a day.

Now I want to change chickens

to opinion, and bear traps

to fate.







Apr 10, 2008



A poem should be limitless.
A poet should know his limitations.

Poetry is what happens in the middle.
Reading nothing and thinking not.

An exquisite corpse of terrible death.
This poem is out of wishes.







Apr 9, 2008



Collected and calm, the racehorse trots
past the garden gate, and into the corn.

The balmy sea and I disagree in our manners
of possession. Even her calm is uneven rage.

Whenever they turn an escalator off,
sit and listen to the escalator music.







Apr 8, 2008



Better right and thought wrong, like Cassandra,
than wrong and thought right, or Nostradamus--

And better Promethean love, without fear
of darkness, for fear is protean; it is fear.

Best yet, better spring move on that fall
may come again, returning May. Best right away.

And I take that back-- Best, right here, in May
of winter, a sad light for the lost along the way.







Apr 7, 2008



The daystar, alien as heaven, rose and rose
until it shrivelled, and then bloomed.

There is nothing to tell you, if you don't already know
yourself: The landscape is strange--

The shadows cast light and the light is cast away.
Like water falls the moon.







Apr 6, 2008




the purposeful, illogical

the sound of water








Apr 5, 2008




      a mudlark's nest     on the porch--

                    no family here










Apr 4, 2008


Wetland jades rose and fell in mild swellings,
potent and cool in mossy constancy
cut only by the dry-blooded berm of road,
itself higher than horizon,
no tree or shrub to be seen;
greens nearly glowing under cement sky
dark with oil.

My companions, enraptured with their own reasons:
the old man's knee-grip,
anxious after the whereabouts of his wife;
the woman's furtive note-taking;
the sullen-eyed boy who offered his name to none of us;
my own not-quite-understanding of where we were going
or what we were to do.

But it became obvious as we stepped from the car--
The building at once parchment white
and stained by birdshit and innumerable rains,
four rotted doors upon the facing side
and without window--
Each entry unmarked, but we, without knowledge, knew:
one was Love and one Wisdom;

A third, Peace; the last, Genius.
And the boy opened his, to a subtlety of rusted cages.
And the old man's remains locked.
And the woman entered to the hung bodies of pale flowers,
an empty banquet table set only with candelabra.
My own, I will not speak of it,
but that it does not matter which we chose.







Apr 3, 2008


                        TRY                                         SEX
              LYN                 EAR                 HER                 ATE
      TEA                                  THY ART                               TAR
    WAY                                    DEATH                                   SUN
      LAW                                 THE ART                               SET
              TAX                 DRY                 RED                 SHE
                          NIL                                         SIN






Apr 2, 2008


she fell in aisle four
dreaming words
and of her brother
coffee box blanket towel cup
sherbert sorbet chess

every face was stern
in the rafters
a squirrel at play

i'm saying it wrong
she says
was it aisle four yes
after opening the glass door
looking at ice cream
sherbert and sorbet yes

those were the words yes
wine tissue cauliflower spray
from nowhere unhinged
like snow
just the sounds no

these are the words yes

the last i saw my brother
we had ourselves a game
of chess
he won he often did
what did you dream of him then

his death i guess
his funeral without a suit
every face was stern

and the squirrel
things get in bats birds
deer coon possum
pets we've not yet met yes
beasts with a surplus
of naivete

out of the wet yes
and sense






Apr 1, 2008


Windchimes glisten in the chill,
dripping louder than the storm now an hour toward the eastern horizon.
Houses sit in their garden rows, dark as the feathered skulls of crow
      in sun-bright snow, cold eyes closed against a dream

of exodus. The wind dies; the wind rises. The banality of dawn,
newborn and blind as the nothing between the scattered impetus of stars,
      screams of its use in the cavernous midnight of distance:

A singularity of impatient air from within the mudded wood of April.
      Deep the grievance with the world in this world. All despair.

      And song but fire calling itself to fire, and as contagious.