First and only chess game gainst an old man
as dinner guest and at bequest--
Early-middle, and it’s not that he doesn’t ‘check’,
but that the bishop I touch must be moved--
Which is more dessert, than win.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

some words are scripture
alloys allayed
some words are clay
coin-fired
and concave

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

"="

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 



 

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 



 

 



 

 



 

 




 

 




 

 




 

 




 

 




 

 




 

 




 

 




 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

to prove moonlight is not snow,
i touch the cement and know
like-hued grass and road as cold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My hate is a beast of seasons--
A spine of February rain,
eyes of August venom and breath
clawing clear an October moon.

My love, a demon of reason--
A fulcrum tongue canting knowledge
toward verisimilitude
biased by cock-mind and bole heart.

My apathy, inconsistent--
Neither full nor hungry, I sit
that frailty breach twilight sheer.

My will I wish inertial-- Death
a mechanism of muses
fractal-edged in flame-- Death a flute.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a marble christ

squats, figs in his hand
halfway thru a shit