fear swallows me:
the slow pulse
undulates like tides
pulling me deeper
within its coils
for days upon weeks,
until there only remains
broken bones scattered
upon the ground.
(March 17, 2014)
-
mendicant’s cold eye
one becomes inuredto the blood spattersacross the floorbest to see plainwithout care’s riskto clot one’s visionstrip away emotionas if peeling tissuefrom broken boneto see with claritythe oblivious truthwhich hangs like fleshfrom carnal house wallsits ubiquitous taintthickening the airuntil every breathtangs with blood’smetallic fears(from a work in progress, “Arcana,” Queenswords, March 16, 2014) -
question, my muse
if you knewI wrote poemsto youas I havefor yearswould you take meto your bedand let mesing my songsto youthroughout the nightor would youlaughat my linesand walk awaywithout so muchas a quick goodbye(from a work in progress: “Arcana,” IIcups, March 15, 2014) -
Erato
She lives within us like the sea,a pulse in the dark at the centerof the earth resonant with stars:patterns, woven within patterns,to be traced like capillaries pastthe origins of a transcendent love,where words and thought fuseinto an inarticulate desire forsomething other than now.(from a work in progress: “Arcana,” Queencups, March 12, 2014) -
staff work
the form is basic enoughparry riposte block deflectthen repeat as each advancecomes toward me againyear after year after yeareven on such shattered groundthe pattern’s familiar enougheach question carries doubtspecific enough without beingat its center entirely wrongyet it is wearing to explain yet againwhat it is I dowho I amthat is not you(from a work in progress: “Arcana,” VIIwands, March 12, 2014) -
Message
by
My obsession consumeswithout consummation.My passion whispers a kisswithout touching lips.My fire leaps along the wind,never touching the ground.
My words’ seductive floodrises above me like love,until I drown.(from a work in progress, “Arcana,” Knightwands, March 11, 2014) -
Into Inconsequence
I have nothingleft to say,but silence,notthe silenceof defiance,the stubbornrefusal to yield,but the absenceof any optionother than utterabnegation:the ashesof the cityvanish intothe still air.(March 10. 2014) -
(how we go on)
by
The water gatherson the tipof a stalactite,collecting itselfbefore the plunge.Leaving traces of itselfupon the rock,like glyphsscratchedupon a wall,a drop forms,turns into itself,then fallsaway.(from “primogenitive folly,” August 2001-April2003) -
afternoon musings
The shy tremble of the elm’s branchesin the late summer air resemblesyour lips as I bend into your kiss.Within the blanket of the tree’s shade,light dapples cool patterns across the groundlike soft fingerprints traced along your skin.Above the hammock the birds dance the airbetween the slow shimmer of the leavesas my thoughts flow toward you once again.(March 8, 2014) -
niggling doubt
by
quick slices through fleshmicroscopic cuts which healand are cut again and thenagain to form patternedscars beneath the skinlike fingernail scratchesclawed within lockedcrematorium 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)
subtext 