I need a distraction
a red cape
to hide a sword in
a quick flourish
before the end
(April 21, 2014)
-
-
look this way
this lens distortsinto a claritythe vaguenessof what I seealong my myopicperipheryit perfectsa troubled visionwhere effect followscause in linearprecision despitewhat I hold as trueone’s allowedonly to honethe lie fineuntil all one seesis their pointstabbing home(April 21, 2014) -
passage
by
perhapsthought’swisps driftthrough airperson to personinto our eyesor handsthey passlike mistthrough treescurling aroundeach branch tipin a slowsinuousdanceuntilthey foldinto our heartsand we understand(April 19, 2014) -
prime mover
a connective threadan intricate mazesome chain of beingtraced backto absolve from blamethe consequence sincewhat one builds onone believes(April 18, 2014) -
the records
by
each tick markupon the pagetracks the secondsthroughout the agethe numbers matterfor ease of controlfor those who watchand finger the roleit does not matterif you disagreeman’s measure’smore than a degreefor you live in the ruleas well as any manthe marks you makefew understand(April 15, 2014) -
wound
by
bloodied rags moundupon the floorI have nothing leftan absence openswithin me like laughteranother breach in airI cannot fillwith metaphor’s demandsnor coagulated assumptionremnants oozefrom the woundmarking the territoriesof my vague constellation(April 15, 2014) -
Checking the Map
Doubt opens up to fear:one does not knowwhat one knows anymore;silence expands distance,until words cannot bridgethe chasm between us.(April 14, 2014) -
rattling knobs
by
always more doorsopen and shutmissing keysmissing locksopen into roomshallwaysoutdoorsindoorsdeeper interiorscloistered ruminationsecho of emptied roomstroubled voices behindlocked doors mumblecupped ear pressedto wood listensfor reasonto flee fromor enter throughanother dooralways another(April 14, 2014) -
Writing’s Risk
at eighty miles per hour I hear a lineand attempt to scrawl the wordsacross my notebook’s pageon the seat next to mewhile staying true betweenthe lane’s lines and the semiwobbling one lane over:how important is the muse’s giftand one’s life?Write the line—before you forgetbefore you diebefore it’s gonetrust what you hearis more importantthan what you knowthe sibyl’s offeringcrumbles fasterthan one can readleaves twist into the windlike dancers into the wings(April 13, 2014) -
Antecedent
by
“I: I wanted to know youM: I wanted far more”–Anne CarsonI’ve lost myselfnearby I imaginebut doubt blocksall attemptsto search the faceI have never seen*she translates herself withina terrain she cannot negotiatefamiliar markers distorta newer clarity withouttraces of metaphor’s fossil*he wanders into the questiontoo late to scream an answerso silence falls around the blueflames kissing his mouth softlywith acquiescence’s dry ash*there are no words for themthey do not exist as pronounthey entwine without wordswithin the silences betweenwhat cannot be said to the other(April 12, 2014) -
all my difference not a difference at all
Is ‘the fine art of unhappiness’ trulylosing its allure?–Denise Levertovfrost has melted awayfrom the edge of the pathseven as far as I can seeinto the undergrowth new budssprout along bare branchesthe wood does not carewhere I stand for a momentI am a minor note withinthe cacophony pulsing each leafbetween which birds flitand sing in strange harmonyeach to each well beyondany sigh I can musterwithin some nostalgic reveriebefore trudging home alone(April 11, 2014) -
nothing to hold
by
my vision blursI fall to my kneesgrasping the dry earthspinning beneath memy hands become dustI become dustindistinguishablein the growing duskacross the barren plainthe still air settlesin with the nightbeneath the empty stars(April 8, 2014) -
a coming to know
on slow approach towarda stranger out walkingeach nods awarenessquickly moving on yetstill thinking what one sawas somehow significantbecause one saw a contextto place the moment withinsafely and with comfort amongthe other thoughts in your headlike pieces from varied puzzlesfit to form a newer patterndisconnected from any pastbeyond the last few words(April 7, 2014) -
with age
I have no answersnor profundities to offeras a proxy for wisdomage bestows nothingbut age no comfortfrom doubt beyond familiaritywith the trope I’ve becomeIt is a simple actto put on the definitionone has been offeredto accept the sumptuaryraiment draped upon melike funeral shroudsignited by the flames(April 6, 2014) -
agoraphobia
shadows pulse on the fire’s edgelike belief’s soft cushions againstthe fangs gnashing bones in the dark(April 5, 2014)
