quick slices through flesh
microscopic cuts which heal
and are cut again and then
again to form patterned
scars beneath the skin
like fingernail scratches
clawed within locked
crematorium doors
(March 6, 2014)
-
don’t trust the trees to stay trees
behind each whispered treeof my metaphorical foresthides a deeper beastthan those which weary meacross this dreary daynot so much vision’s refractionbent through branchesblanketed by carrion birdspecking at ideas like eyesfrom the souls of the deadas much as non-existent shadowsslipping along a peripherywith unbelieving angelsin search of a wayward god(March 6, 2014) -
The Heart Slowly Overtakes Reason
I plod past dreamsto pass the day.Truth liesbeneath a soft surfaceof a song I singto you of love’s desire.I lack experiencewith such seductionsto turn my intentionsbeyond the shapes of clouds.I stumble my wordsin exaggerated failingsto transform the groundaround you to include me.(from a work in progress: “Arcana,” Knightcups, March 5, 2014) -
(shaped by story)
The story trails beyond its end.Sotto voce echoes of echoes reshapean ear many years and miles away.Who speaks : who listens.(from “primogenitive folly” August 2001-April 2003)
-
Aging Desire
by
It’s not the city that changes.It’s him becoming old, unableto separate memory fromwhere he stands now.The landmarks change.So his words replace them.Soon the old marker vanishesfrom the sign it has become;and, he loses his wayfrom there to homeas the world’s meaningstrips from his words.****All art strives for
the propagandaof the artist’s visionto be receivedby the peoplearound him:his friends,family,lovers.The small contacts comewith understandingover time, returningto a conversationto re-shape, re-phrasea nuance recentlyrecurred as hewent about the day.(March 3, 2014) -
doubt
exhausted emptylost to the winda plastic bagcaught on a branchout of reachtorn shapelessobliviousto the whispersof destructiondancing closerthrough the airabove the treesminute byinevitableminute untilnothing remainsnot even an echoof leaves fallinglike starlingsin a flurryto light uponthe frozen ground(March 3, 2014) -
Opposed to Natural
Look at this piece of pottery, anartifact—rare. a thing made by art,an artificial product. Artifex; (L.f. arti-art + fex, -fec-emmaker, f. fac-ereto make.) Artificer.Artifice : the action of an artificer, themaking of anythingby art, construction, work-manship. Artificer : one who makesby art or skill. Artificial : made byor resulting from art or artifice; contrived,compassed, or brought aboutby constructive skill, and notspontaneously; not natural.a. artificial in result as well as process.This shard speaks in fragments.Look inscribed here,a language naturally.And what does it say?What dreams forced it onto clay?(from “if this is a comedy, then why ain’t laughing,” 1993) -
To Luxuriate in the Ineffable
by
to Hope BurwellTo approachis not enoughand often too much.The mirage shimmers away;the beauty’s voice marsher make-up.In what details arethe atom’s swirlthe crab nebula?I stand at a distanceremoved, but onlyassuming a mid point other.The space between the linesalso runs parallel.Are my edges yours?A part or apart?We dance in the flame,simultaneously air and fire.(circa fall 1993) -
Self-Recriminations
by
Blindly,I embedeach razoredword I speak,like dormant seeds,into the surroundingground. Then wait,without surprise,for the vindictivevines to snakealong my legsand spine strippingflesh from bone,like butchers applyingtheir keen knivesto the unvoicedtendons ofthe dead;until I waillong ululationsof despairto the wind,as if my coyinnocencehad not vanishedlike breathinto the icy air’ssilencewith the firstsoft wordsI spoketo you.(from a work in progress, “Arcana, VIIIswords, February 27, 2014) -
Gabriel Waits in an Alley
Over his headon a wallhe propshimselfagainst,a sign,he doesnot see,stuttersindecisivelyfrom red(closed)to blue(open)in an asymmetricalarticulationperpetuallyon the vergeof annunciation.(February 26, 2014) -
Open the World
I set out on a new trail againconfident only in familiaritywith the process the motionone foot in front of the otherthe slow amble giving timeto look up and wonderwhy it took so long againto shake off the cold doubtto transform fear into hopeto breathe curiosityand laugh with each pratfallnot caught in grace’s illusionI step forth from my lifeinto the radiant world’s blur(from a work in progress: “Arcana,” IIwands,February 26, 2014) -
Even at Rest I am Tense
by
Amid the books and cats in the front room,I sit content within the labyrinthI have wandered aimlessly through for years.The familiarity of the orderedspines lines up across the shelves as if fatehas spun out a net within each chapterto script my thoughts, until they finallyarrived in this room defined by my books,like old city walls to shelter my self,and all I love, from the coming onslaughtof the sneering ignorance battlingobviously within me at each turnof all the random pages I can readwithin the growing shadows of the room.(from a work in progress:”Arcana,” Xpentacles, February, 24, 2014)
subtext 