May 16, 2008
May 13, 2008
May 12, 2008
If you can offer it, I can take it--
It seems fair, as it has nothing to do--
With how one moves, let alone discern--
With greasy stare, amicable--
Alchemical, as jetsam to a shark--
With or without the sense of a new--
Time devises, a catchword, berave--
Piano, violin and atonal--
Roar-fade, cricket, straked kite--
Watson, we are destroyed and so--
We flower, we nonsensicate wisdom--
Old death, all is bereft of sense--
If you can offer it, I can take it--
It seems fair, I am your only defense--
May 9, 2008
arietta
blue
cannery
diocese
ecclesia
fairn
graphia
hegari infinitesimal
jivanmukti knossian
lentamente minyulite
noria orphist periless
quatrible rial shomer
trimeteruniform vermicule
weissnichtwo
xerothermic
yttrium
zareba
yohimbe
xyloquinone
welterweight
terpenicunkempt vexillary
quietsome raob sensum
nhang obsequy palatine
locomotive mancipate
jardiniere ketazine
hazily inculpability
guildry
fugue
eluviate
dormant
coupage
best
aquiver
bixa
chamois
decapod
epiphora
finis
gallium
haught incommiscible
juxtaposed kamleika
leberwurst madrepore
natya ophiura portague
quaesitum rape stardom
thereminululant viminaria
wallydraigle
xenopodidae
yangtao
zoisia
xiphiplastral yclept
ubiquist venatrial weaponsmith
ruminal systatic trigeminal
oopuhue profunditude quinarius
loment mullar neutropenia
infestant jojoba kame
glyptic holard
endpiece fictile
dysphrasia claggum
berairou
aorist
May 8, 2008
solar
dentata
conscripted
purloined
apothecary
vis-a-vis
allembro
pistole
commendable
tureen
parsnip
equitable
fulminary
avant
disgruntle
conestoga
incendiary
surplus
jesuit
malordor
conversation
banyan
papier-mache
elegant
vanilla
hierarchical
duodenum
counselor
teriyaki
pterodactyl
settee
forge
wisconsin
children
viscosity
tendon
parfum
facility
zinc
parenthetical
flavor
abomination
digress
bicep
colour
cant
serengeti
psalm
limpid
rote
calliope
trickle
elan
carnivore
test
understand
May 7, 2008
I.
The silver willow no man had planted bloomed the night of her birth.
It was her grandmother who died between contractions, an accident
of old tissue and cartilege slipping softly, bringing the basin down
from her daughter's room. Her first words: Dolorum. First prank?
Tying a two pound bullfrog to the kitchen ceiling's light string
one dark and quiet night, and then shrieking, from under the table,
after her mother's initial fright. Her first menses occured at eight;
the second appeared at twelve. School was adequate; boys, less so.
How it happened then, is perhaps too banal to relate, and yet:
A blindman's dog growled; a dozen cats followed; two doves fell dead
at her feet, in a dream far more real than waking, and so she stayed
in a realm not her cancer, nor ours, would touch, after much work.
The black willow she tends to, does not weep, but burning, wires about.
II.
The closest farmer slaughtered his oldest Holstein within seconds
of her first breath. Her father will later say he had argued for Charity,
but found compromise, seduced by an afterbirth kiss. One teacher notes:
Clarity's refusal to focus upon any one task as a task ineluctable
is of paramount joy, tantamount to vexation. At sixteen, her Ode
to Melancholy simply catalogues drugs both pre- and proscribed
to then sum going street price. She twice fellates a tattoo artiste
for the portrayal of a coral snake, sans black but for eye and tail,
aswim and lifesize upon collarbone. What made her turn, so exactly,
may not be understood even if told, and yet: There came an autumn
day of August she witnessed a woman pushed into traffic by her child,
a boy more sprite than demon, destroyed before her eyes. The driver
whispered prayers, and held the mother's hands; she restrained the boy.
III.
There was a storm when you were born; the earth was dry until after.
Recognition that you practiced masturbation while still in diapers
occured at six or seven; which one, you are uncertain. You once told
the grassy gulley wood every green shade was loved; this, a curse
that gained momentum, intended for that first lover-cum-enemy, unmailed
and burned in the basement sink instead. Books, television, music
and computers: Lines, lines, lines that lead you nowhere, providing
clue as to what to do, should you ever arrive. You talk of God to God,
guessing He or She (or yes, It) is to be cajoled from scalar corners
with promises of self. What will change you, even you don't know
but for the gravity of death, and yet, and still: this morning,
your body respired slowly, a spider crawled along your inner thigh,
you dreamt of water, and you gloried as you stretched yourself out.
May 4, 2008
the mutable dog and scrutable cat
ate an orange and took a bath
at 11205. the cat was drapery--
the dog was nice. there were mice.
a turtle climbed up the stairs.
there was snow all over clear
and made of something lighter
than water. a wolverine
killed a bear. there were doves
at 11205. vacancy hums. a worm
took upon himself stone.
when you arrived, i did not
try to outguess you; i took out
my heart; i slit my wrists.
threnody for evolution
of waves concurrently
disembodied and blue
that pierce the heart
of noontide and truth
a knife on display
everything ridged
with a delicate blur
and delayed.
a disavowment
of themselves
as they marry
and contort
in their ballet
of losing themselves
as notes simultaneously
in sacrilege
of themselves.
they play
the waves.
they say
alleluia.
maybe every man dreams himself a king
every green blade of girl a dark queen
the number of plans we make against charade
probably fall to memory exponentially
perhaps you'll talk to god when this is over
in any event what is dead has been done
and it may be just as likely there is nothing
and so I repeat myself: what is dead is done
once upon a time ago amidst a switch
of rivers a little girl dreamed of now
and has been dreaming all the while
once upon a time away near from now
a child will either die or reawaken
and what has died will have been sung.
May 3, 2008
May 2, 2008
there are things you need to say
before you say the things you mean;
give them credit to believe you,
to show the things you've seen--
an excellent nonsense exasperated
by toil, and still you need to say:
there is a castle in a canyon--
there it goes; there a child starves
in lives of window and of door;
the weather war and war tenor;
there a carcass before vines;
there a flicker of lightning,
clapping afterthought; there
successions of eclipse.
May 1, 2008
As silty pure as snow over high mountain
chiseling crags in June; the grit of brook
gathering down to bubble if not froth
into the scouring waves, resplendently
on time. As curious as fire dying as it
catches and holds; the pop and ting
and collapse; all that warmth it gives
and still it wants, embers in the mildest
red-ache of breezes. As presumptuous
as the tomb as an altar; my idols are living
without testament, reproving themselves
and disproving others, also themselves.
As quiet as dehydration, and a fall of ash.
As bright as the concept of a black hole.
I made him stretch before I killed him.
With respect, and irrespective of the fact
there were no armies; he and I alone
in dark forest. I had him undress.
Had he harmed me; had he bettered
the world? Yes; of course--
Revelation permeates--
The dying man wiped his brow.
I shot him and did not hear a sound.
There was a humorous contraction.
The body splay, no longer sly.
I shot him in the throat.
He had tried to say what was liked.
Wisdom unprofound.
Let us leave the concert early,
for Mayfair Street is moonlit-cool
with panther false asleep,
playfully hunting among the temples
of riverbed rock, and in darkness
lost. Let us find a place to watch
the river arrive and leave in certitude,
and drink to honor night grown of night,
restless as the nearest eastern city
pink upon the sky.
Let us hope for storm, and eat
oranges; inhale lightning as we kiss.
Let us leave the concert early
for Mayfair Street's caress.
Writing about it, isn't poetry.
That's the first thing they teach.
Not writing about it, even less so--
But that's more grasp than reach.
There's really not much to say,
if you just want to write; but--
Not wanting to write, that's just
wrong, unless you've something
to say, of course. Deep philo-
sophical questions like, "Am I
making sense?" What does life
give a damn for madness? Not much
responds some symphonic majesty--
Which makes one higher than thou.
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