within
the confines
of my skin
my mind
swirls and twirls
a turmoil
of my
reaction
to my
dissatisfaction
(June 18, 2013)
-
the ecstatic life
by
a day shimmerslike the hum of cicadasand frogs through the night:one momentat a stoplightabout to change;one conversation,of a sort,with the local grocer;one book you readyears ago risingpast memory into now;a patterned resonance,which shiftsas I walk down this street.(June 16, 2013) -
memory corrupts the day
by
yes it is another new morningbut all our yesterdayspull from the graveof my regret snatchingbits of the present like wolvestearing flesh from a fresh killso I rise each day and attemptto steal my bones from the lock boxof expectations clamped abouteach of the decisions I must make(June 15, 2013) -
From a Full Glottal Stop
by
1unencumberedbetween wordsits arbitrary nature breakslike synapsespitting bits of informationfrom finger tipto brain moveor die in painwords reflect traceslike picturesof bubble chamber’s particlesa silent passageion’s life spans splitto form from quarks of soundto trail definitionno longer foundat word’s end2the vagary of intervocalic r’s ululationsslip like glaciers across the geographymountains ground into valleysstandards set by the soundsof a stuttering elitefrom tight interdental vibrationsto the wet chokes of distant glottal stopsa race emerges gurglinga baby slides from the wombone lone wailwidens the worldwith nascent definition3the widening arms of galactic spiralsembrace spacea tongue surrounds soundsa nest sits tight in tessellating treesbalanced between branchesbending like water over rocksor air fired by lungstempered by throatmolded then refinedto fit soft lipsto pull the helixinto meaningwarmly around the bodyquivering between soundsuttered by all4breath catches on soundstumbles through phonemean epic of history–clotted blood and laws for meaningyetthe written wordthe spoken wordshore nothingno grammar no syntax no linksbetween lines scratched in boneand the vibrations releasedclosed off by throats–clogged with sandeyes cannot readthe parched symbolson the crumbling page5the pen tip dips ink across papercalligraphic swathes of blackdirect usinwardoutwardthe spiral descentthe twisted ascentinformation crossesdetaches reformsperforms its dutywith changearbitrary regulationink blood genes wordscontrol blursvision fluxesabout the pen’s nib6somnambulantwe weave onan undulant pathrocks are watertrees birds blurinto buildings blurinto rubbleso we praymumble wordsrecite wordscite formulasa prescriptiona descriptionof a world we wantonly when withoutso we chantchant syllables past consonantsvowels change into truer vowelsto change the wordto change the world(circa 1990-1994, from If This is a Comedy, Then Why Aren’t We Laughing) -
Early Spring
to Quinn, age 1Light dawns slowly across the whole.Ludwig WittgenstienThe apple tree blossoms again;the pink and white blooms gracethe bare branches like birds.Snow bells drip from the shockof lily leaves that huddles nearthe base of the house out back.Quinn toddles to the couch,eyes crisp with laughter,cradling a book he wants to read.(circa 1993, from If This is a Comedy, Why Aren’t We Laughing) -
Love-Struck
by
As onewe all turnto watch nearby,but he,sitting behind youand in love,glancesat the exposed skinabove your summer dress.A lock of your hair,displaced,draws a linealongyour bare neckfollowing,like droplets of water,the pale curveof your shoulder.He longsto runhis tonguebetweenyour shoulderblades’ wings;to drink you inwith sharpquick kisses,tracing backalong the lineof your neck.Someone laughsand we all turnback as beforeinto ourselves.He sits in silence:listening, discomfited,to the flowof conversation;watchingthe others;seeingonly you.EnvoiOh, Prince! You are such a fool:so few simple words,so few explanations,without any occasion to occur,could break this impasse.(June 12-14, 2013) -
Simple Math
by
Logos: P equals Q.A shape is a cow.We say something.It says something about us,a circular equationnever returns to completion.Echoes return changedharbored in familiarity.(circa 1990-1994, from If This is a Comedy, Why Aren’t We Laughing) -
Tell Me a Story
by
because reading declinesbecause pages are lostbecause people talk(stories remain simpleloss love honor truththe enemy always evilinside outsidethe enemy always evilhearts are campfire sparksminds flow towards starsthe moon’s lost in cloudsdevoured by darker wolvesthe circle pulls tightera drum taps song into danceits skin tight like consonantschromosomes blaze Van Gogh’s eyeas stickmen chant innate rhymesa line forms like dust on air)touch hands and speak(circa 1990-1994, from If This is a Comedy, They Why Aren’t We Laughing) -
silence is a response
“Silence, I discover, is something you can actually hear.”–Haruki Murakamitoo personaltoo soontoo publictoo manypeopletoo manycomplicationsto speakto youto myselfwithout fearwith an honestconversationabout the endof love(June 11, 2013) -
Dream Journal #11: And Then It Was Gone
there were roses of courseobvious symbols of somethingsexual for what else are theybesides roses and they werefading no longer buds or evenfully open to the hummingbird’sdelicate tickle yet supplethe petals’ flesh still moistI hovered over them a scholarlost within this unfolding poemthe lines rose like a rose’s scentinto the air the words fully formedupon the page with a profundityto shake my complacent world(June 10, 2013) -
tongue tied
he trembles before the judgeof each day’s conversationas if anyone beyond his ownobsessive conceit could carehow the what and whyof his words play outafter all meaning’s often crushedbetween definition and dogma’sfine lines of proprietywith the flick of the master’s whipbut he knows if any honesty existsit flows from what he knowshis words to mean withineach syllable he speaks(June 9, 2013) -
resentment rests within me
by
Anger burnssteady and hot,the way latesummer daysscorchinto the nightsearingeven the stars.I feedthe flamesa cold fuelI’ve fashionedover timefrom smallbitsof my heart.A foolish act,I know;yet, I cannot resistthe callow comfortit providesagainstthe anguishof the dark.(June 9, 2013)
