Thursday, June 30, 2011

On Trajectory

Tort: grievous mention as sallow sweeps the
face another dawn dribbled over.

Whether weather signs chemical showers or
slips to staccato hail, whimpers will waft an
other orbit to star shrieking satellites.

Great and small, all creatures creeping but
a mm frequency from microwave, infrared, the
ultraviolent twitched and spun looming up
skeins of radio-signal bought and sold.

Inertia building borrowed from time to time on
largess licensed tomorrow for today an
other stutter triptonguing staggered steps like
burrowed ants earthquaked to each other's levels
lanced grasswise looming dew drip dropping
to mouth to mudden and drown.

Deep in ground
transmit rhythms rock
myth signal
called by cellphone
to sick sky stars

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

St. Joseph's Hospital

Fastened by slat-light sheaves pinioned in
splay thrum the wounds exposed.  Thrum the
windows with the pressure air, thudding air
like thunder skims pond surface, pushes
down bullfrogs beneath the surface.  Who
thump their throats in the shallows and
bubble up boils of tadpoles and bursts of
belches of water-ripple, not-sound.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Knight errant

mace and ermine the fur swing and
slip and each tooth another long
story another scar for my inner thigh or
the palm of my hand

enough about me.  there errant and
not losing so much as where the map
still is no more territory stretching to the
tattered edges of the land the parchment extends
spreads out over cliff faces and in
outdate, even antiquated, but I digress
needle and star and long lines scrivened to
mark circumference
spreading out over oceans
over "here there be dragons" over
empty empty lands seen once, on shipdeck
with a spyglass and a broken compass
and where these newfound lands that track out beyond the
burned maws and where the blustered
boy to brain them, carry their flesh back to feast,
and, flushed in vinyard volumes, mark the map to
history

I am tired and the stretch falls away, land long
lost though mapped and stretched and staid

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Drums on the Far Shore

pooled ink pulses by tripped fountain pen
where in the air was that thud
heavy, laden almost with- and there pulses again
and almost rhythm almost tomorrow wrenched
through sound and siphoned to taut ear skin stretched

another word scratched, even etched, a heiroglyph to
distraction with each line a glance away and a slip
streamed from empty consciousness and not as Buddha would
in form, perhaps, this:
Thorns thrash. ash lips lift over brush fire tips
Tracked another outfit flutter with
wind expanding. Sound, slow to meet, now slips
lark tongues tremble now bowed. sound slashed myth
No? annotations tell of, well, crafthands marching over
pages, pulsing pressures on key and cranium and drumming
skulls and there it is again that creak sneaking over
water that wracks and warps with wind, waves on seabirds
to their nests, above the waterline. A scrawl of claw
marks, etchings submerged and blurred under ocean encroach
marred markings:
Thunders torn. taught and longing in measure
Hammers sweep the air and flatten sand shapes
orbits on longitude, birds cry pleasure
and fish glisten like live silicon apes 
Candid and yet sly a balanced polit
Backing bluster and cracking chestnut jaw
thorns sucked thumb by bloody thumb, the dole it
cart by carted now wear and tear gun-law
no? clash another color, purple green and orange admixed
on the tide and is that ash the wind carries as far as
an unfinished poem
wired through bit breezes and lapped on each digit shore

Thursday, June 9, 2011

My Apartment is Clean

dusted, no motes idle,
catch, and flash when the sun
lances my window - its final
thrusts before evening leaving

Monday, June 6, 2011

Lazy Tides

I don't read enough poetry, it's
easy to tell that reading perhaps
enough is not quite right, what is
enough but what I meant was poetry
is not always echoing about my head
and, well, sometimes it hurts to be
without words and when broiling in
brain play some thoughts think clearer
in a stew of sounds and syllables
cast by clearer tongues than mine

- a vein of ore pulsing with old thoughts calcified by time and culled of unsustainable sentiment -

But perhaps, on reconsideration, I find
that I am not just not reading enough
poetry, but also not thinking enough of
my own poems and saying enough of silly
rhymes and where o where are the notebooks
of my youth and why am I afraid to be trite
and why don't I take the time to mine

- the tongued tangle of sound pressed through the air on each meeting of people and pressing of hands and each whistle and pop of that most fascinating human organ, the mouth -

it's not the mouth though, is it? it's something
like the voicebox, like, hmm, vibration and sound
and wasn't it a swede who found all the shapes to
make each vowel. I wonder if poems are allowed
links. It seems like that would have been a good
place for one