On the order of

In silicon spans, over gaps guarded by the boundary

conditions of physics and last september, when I 

called you by your name and wouldn't look at you

I didn't mean my words, only their emptiness

and in cathode rays there were little sparks but now

pixels clean everything and decompose them down to

single-colored boxes for light

I am always amazed by how much green goes into faces

and how much yellow is in a summer sky

kited inch by inch against the wind would the stars remember

would they recognize old dust transformed and tracked

through void and pyre and plow and finally beaten into

clearing pipes to track away enough lines for finally fetching

lifting, and heaving to

Opening

Warrens spill
My brothers and I have had another drink together and
if tomorrow is coming
it is coming to quickly and with the ominous rush of
skidding trains and a great
heavy front of air is pushing up against my face and
filling my nostril with
pretension... the scent of poetry
unable to write real webbing whorls of unready, tired,
too young

I am not old enough and may never be

Untended (warmup poem one)

sound is split line by line

out of beowulf with seem

striped in neat typographic 

casts, some printer placing

piece by piece, blocks of

poem and wondering what

monk mashed together this

song and story and made it

full of God and giftgiving and

why grendel, and his mother

and noise filled with pain for 

the soft ears of some lonely

native all piled together to make

a diptych story tracking in parted

stanzas on a printed page the

creep from old gods to new

and through what door was

the break-in, and by who

Hum, for lack of a song

Industrial Nomad - the shiver-shinned gypsy bluster-blown through smokestacks and red brick ruins, blackened

A cast of one.  On another inroad, another shift of frame and through a heavy sky crashes, red-waddled, the rooster god.

As it is industry, the rooster god is headless and spouts in great ash flecked fountains the arterial blood that once powered its tiny seat of omniscience.  In the sea of blood one might find some sign of sentience, some indication that the powerful heart of the titanic fowl sprays its contents with purpose and divine ingenuity for now the scene is painted red as a fur coat and draping its drippings as if curtains spread from stack to stack and all about the soot has fallen flat and been pulled from the air and the industrial nomad who, for lack of better occupation, begins to clean the side stacks with a lone mop and bucket, or perhaps a toothbrush, or perhaps a zamboni.  Unlikely though it is, she soon has clotted all great gouts and in rusted piles stacked each platlette patty for the vultures of midday and morning-after to take up until, like a "turned" hotel room, all that is left is the uninhabited hollows of all these artifacts strewn about

With wind crisped on finger tips and crystal crust thickening and each square foot another degree cooler another spreading of and cooling of and when I need to be empty I spread until I am zero degrees and everything stops and I fall apart into the densest clump and another thing, why are you trying to see through me?

Driftwood figures are fishes and carved like totems into the skin of and bones of and when I'm out of conjunctions I spit to stick my words together and when I can't walk no more I swagger so I don't stagger I can expand at a thousand feet per second I can spread until I am all around and when you seem to see through me it's just into the back of me again and why, really why are you doing that anyway?

Cranberry wine is the color of my secret which I have told to be vacuous and under ever meaningless word and into each empty phrase it breathes 0.001% of chlorine gas so no one man must be a mustard and I am not always breathing death.  I think Smaug went flying because he was tired of the underside of the mountain and really didn't mind much that his horde was hobbitted and Another breastplate hole is filled when I am too tired to talk through things and even my autopilot poet cant find another word

Fiction

On december 21st of the year of our lord 2017, the first frosts clumped and crystaled among stretches of silicon waste.  The sun rose, and frost films warmed, melted, and evaporated.  Left was a dry stretch of silicon waste.

Langley

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