wolves moan in the woods
ice crusts across old snow
desire still lingers
(February 22, 2016)
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Dream Journal #27: Old Desire
two tankamy song is not sungthe dry scruff along the floorthe bitch and wet moanshe comes to me yet againwanting more than I can changesitting close my breathwhispers kisses down her neckwhy why why her handlost in an empty pocketwanting more than I can change(February 21, 2016) -
Aging Desire
They say grow oldgracefully, yet graceevades its unfolding.Bitterness begetsbitterness, a kudzuto strangle the heart.Each gesture createsa repetition, a reassertion;each thought a clichéto clang shut like jail cellsmarred with broken clawsas truth bows to power.Tell me where I can finddutiful dreams, ecstatic letters,someone who will let meuntangle my knots and strings,rather than leave me broken,a marionette’s inert limbsbent double in a simple lie,like an old man crumpledin a corner of the room.(February 20, 2016) -
within an eye
I can only seethe vision arrangedbefore my vision,as if it werethere beforeI could know.Such patternsswarm and growone upon the other,lace palimpsestsshift and curlwithin a cataract’s pearl.Dark shapes danceupon a darker wall.(February 15, 2026) -
Origin of Speech
No need to toss it all aside.We fall away easily enough,husks surrounding the truthof words spoken across centuries.Where does the code begin?With the grunts and moans,or within the sentient silence?The space between the crunchof teeth on bone and slowsavory suck of marrow?When time slows enoughto think of more than death?Each tick mark an accountwritten to be reminded:be content within this calm,this moment without fear.(February 13, 2016) -
Finding a Place in the World
by
negotiations ramble alonglike a drunk stumblingdown a rain slicked roadI’m worn by all the fumblinglost keys old friends slurred wordsmemory continuously crumblingalong a cliff’s edge I waverthen step into air tumbling(February 11, 2016) -
as if butterflies exploded from her lips
She moved through him as metaphor.The simplicity of her simile evadedhim, and he was translated intoa language he could not speak.With each word he heard her say,he fell farther and farther awaymuch as disembodied laughterechoes across the evening dusk.She moved through him as metaphor,a tsunami far out to sea, rollingforever toward an unsuspecting shore.She moved through him as metaphor,leaving traces to confuse and twirlhis thoughts into a figurative whirl.(February 10, 2016) -
guilt and blame
always the needto explain to justifyher margins as ifshe owed anyonereasons for beingthere are no reasonsfor the guilt he bearsfor the fear he holdsclose like a shieldagainst immanent blowsyet there they sittwin vultures peckingbits of dignityfrom the frigid airtoo cold to speak(February 9, 2016) -
emerson’s eye
no eye as apertureto create a doora prescient nowto stumble throughto go forth lostwithout purposewithout controlto confineeach lens blursvision’s claritydefines boundaries’tight circlesas if these chainscould be broken(January 23, 2016) -
parting
We walked parallelas if together; then,you turned awaywithout a word.Memory provides framesto drape a significance,that was not thereuntil this moment.As when I walk againbeneath the sycamoreand light shimmersthe leaves in ecstasy,the dance is not betweenthe light and leaves,nor between what isseen and how it seems,but somewhere on a distantedge, a different horizon,askew to each otheras desire to memory.(February 5, 2016) -
Forgetting as Acquiescence
by
I walked through a different door;and then, in epiphany, I sensedI was lost. The patterns I movedwithin were lifted, and I knewnothing as familiar as a home.As in those moments when tensein a dream, you become awareyou are in a dream, and relaxback into sleep’s narrative,I relaxed into the idea of beinglost in my life. Except I wassomeone else, and I knew I wassomeone else, with a remnantof me, redundant and superfluous;but not enough to cohereinto a whole able to controlwhat was said and heard.So, I stood still, one step inside,beside myself, who was not myself,another aspect of a waning moon.Desperately, I gathered the traces:the moonlight flickering the snowclinging to the forest floor,bits of conversation along withthe meaning I longed to give it;all to patch together a pretenseof a memory never quite there.(February 4, 2016) -
vision
no matter how well polishedhow fine the grinding cloththe lens focuses and reflectsthe light to see and not to seewhat is there before us unseenand seen as it distorts and obscuresthe object of our desires untilit too is absorbed like a scholarbent over a book loses himselfwithin a new understandingso that what we once knewvanishes into a vast ignorance(February 2, 2016) -
Memory Exhausts Me
Exhaustion digs deep, tracesthe muscle’s edge. The slowcurve bends into bone; untileven thought wears like waterwashing along a shore, reshapingcontoured relations. Memoriesdetach and drift free, dandelionsalighting on a stream, pockingthe surface in random patterns.Yes, one cannot exist in the sameriver twice; yet, time drapesresidual traces, like debriswithin a sieve. A mish-mashof moments remain, no lessof time than the way willowssigh their tired branches intothe creek’s slow meanderare a part of the day’s flow.(January 29, 2016) -
doorway
like the framedemptinessof a doorI am absencewhat remainsclinging to airafter a last breathsighs into silence(January 27, 2016) -
Old Moon
by
thin clouds streak the skylike wolves’ articulate howlsthe moon does not care(January 26, 2016)
