from an untitled serial poem (2)
tufts of dark fur
scraps of red cloth
broken glasses pools
of wine the remnants
of someone’s meal
are splashed across
the cottage like blood
on a butcher’s apron
she is not here
neither is he
one fled
one’s dead
birds hop and sing
on the window sill
a family of rabbits
nibble grass
along the path
the door lies shattered
on the ground
dry splinters of wood
punctuate the grass
with unvoiced cliches
(January 3, 2020)
Yes, even today—
as dark devours day,
light breaks the night.
(December 11, 2019)
A pile of essays,
formulaic and so dull—
no real data here.
(October 22, 2019)
Bourbon’s no answer,
yet, our day begs the question—
Where else could I be?
(October 18, 2019)
October begins;
summer still burns the dry air.
We must change our lives.
(October 1, 2019)
Always nearby, Fear hangs back
floating like the hint of smoke
on the horizon. The city lies
in that direction. Home lies
in that direction. We are not
going back again. Still, it comes.
Its tongue insinuates the air; soft
words clot our ears with ice.
This is the time which we live in:
slow lumbering ideas, empty and angry,
tumble through the streets like rocks
tossed by giants from mountain tops.
No one notices the viscous fire
burning the flesh from our bones.
(September 4, 2019)
“knowing less than drugged beasts”
–Ezra Pound, Canto XLVII
As we cower
beneath an array of bullets,
there is no forgiveness
for not knowing
the shades within shades
of evil. Yet, in this land
without shade, neither knowing
nothing, nor how to sail, nor
to have a sea to set forth upon,
even if a boat were here
in this desolate land
of sated men, and drugged beasts:
knowing nothing is cherished
as a privileged pleasure;
and so, I raise my voice
without delay, and sing
as if I could sow with my voice
in the cracked earth
some salvation from the sun.
(August 8, 2019)
