so many holes
for questions
to embed
implications
like echoes
partially folded
into themselves
until even
honesty
cloaked in doubt
approaches
like a mendicant
begging
for answers
to solidify
uninterrupted
(July 2012)
-
Projection
You are who I imagine,until you are not, and thenonly who you are remainsscattered like thoughts.(July 2012) -
How We Go On
by
We talk through the night.Afterwards, you walk home in the dark.I watch you to the bend in the road.(July 2012) -
Fourteen Similes Without Context
by
like glass slivers scattered on the ruglike blood splattered on our walllike a prize without a winnerlike an ecstatic sinnerlike a stranger’s slow gaitlike her causal laughterlike the sun at nightlike a fellow neophytelike an empty pickle jarlike a hand crushed in a machinelike the opening of a doorlike the smell of an unread booklike a poemlike a moment after your dying thought(July 2012) -
wants
by
he wants to talk with hernot so much around herhis tongue stumblesas he tries to explainshe looks out the windowat the mockingbird singingshe wonders why he explains solike the mockingbird nearbyhe wants to say what he wantsbut can’t because of fearshe wants him to speakbut doesn’t listen when he doesthey watch each other along their edgesthe mockingbird sings in the tree(July 2012) -
fractured mosaic
my hand cups……a slight curve of skina wine flows over……take this offering…as does the nightbird crywith the dawnwe sleep(July 2012) -
Galatea
by
He shapes her to his mind:a mind to mind entwinesbefore he approaches the coolbeauty of the marble skin.She lives beneath his touch;each stroke brings her forthinto herself: this life to comeawaits but on a kiss.(July 2012) -
speech acts
by
he talksof thisshe talksof thatthey do thisbut not thatit becomesall abstractnebulouslike a kissa wishfor an acta wordhe sees amissas if she’sa factwaitingto enactsomething morethan lessa chancehe missedshe talkedof thishe talkedof thatthey did thisand not that(July 2012) -
but a walking shadow
he worries over each exchangelike an entrepreneur countingthe initial stock option in his planas if what might be said willbe said instead of rehearsedin all its manifestations untilhe screams out his botched liesand when he steps from the minutiaof these possibilities the essenceof his rage trails after himlike smoke from a firebrand drivinghim ever deeper into the tissue of doubtwhich spasms like disembodied frog legsat each jolt of his unrelenting memory(july 2012) -
One’s Own Advice
I laugh at my catwhen I brush herand she bristles a hissat the slightest touchlao tzu said waitfor the water to clearI think let the brush movelike a purr through airyet I bristleat the slightestcomment offeredwhen I should laugh(July 2012) -
“skoal with the dregs”
a shot of bourbonsweet corn smoked out of this fieldreaps my darkest thoughts -
Roman Rocks
by
the ruins of centurieslie about us like storiesin a retirement centerbits of disconnectednarrative exchanged with teaflattened to equivalencybefore folded to fit snugin pockets of cultural referenceor hieroglyphs constellatedupon an allusive discourselike jazz riffs on pop songswe play upon our clichésto fissure otherwise strangetotalities’ crushing silence(July 2012) -
Eleven Frameworks
by
We look throughour reflectionin the windowto see the world**once I read glassnever quite solidifiesso old windows seemto ripple like water**his hands bleedfrom the fragmentsof glass scatterednow across the floor**I place my handsupon the panethe sun’s warmthwashes through me**outside of the housedefined separateby the questionablesolidity of glass**I grow intowhat I seein the bisectingwindow frames**heading home latehe imagines seeing herthrough the window movelike curtains in a breeze**she sees him in the windowwaves in happy expectationhe steps back stirredas if by a soft wind**from the outside edgea spider weaves her netacross the sill whisperingjump my love jump**the clunking brutalityof a chunked brickshatters the charmedsafety of the window’s light**in spring an openwindow airs outstale wintergathered like dust(June 2012) -
Taking Offence
by
not so much acatastrophic eventas a foot slipon a mountain passa pebble bouncestwice against therock face beforevanishing in silenceno one noticesexcept perhaps fora chameleonsunning on a rocklike a little boywho did not gethis wish I turnand walk away(June 2012) -
Epiphany
by
It’s wearisome! And the Queen, the Sorceress who lights her fire in the pot of earth, will never tell us what she knows, and what we are ignorant of. — Arthur Rimbaud, After the FloodYesterday,a wind tore throughmy state.Today I surveythe damagethe lossof trustin the day’s patterns.So muchfragilityis hiddenby routine,a shieldof the commonplace,so easily shatteredby the simplest mischance.And now,I stand in silencestudying the groundat my feet.A leaftremblesthen fallsthrough the still air.I tremblein doubt,then look upas ifexpecting someone;yetonly cicadas continueto grind throughthis unrelenting heat.I come to a slow understandingof this worldI have foldedmyself within.( June 2012)
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