28 November 2009

pain brûlé

collared red redundant pillows, then the meandering whims of last night
like blood, half-dry, spread over that evening's balmy comeuppance 
flying nowhere then sick and high from promise, just the smell of it
popping capillaries where skin lives in sin with morning air spun cold.

27 November 2009

And then The Explosion, Flames Ripping like FISH HOOKS Into The Sky

i am not afraid of telling you
that disappointment cut me,
(but i am afraid to say your name)
You, snoring and moaning: a log
loafs incontinence down a slippery
hill, and i am nothing but a bald witness

these sights and sounds, the pastel pallet
pushes electric east then wild wind west
as i shake my head and daydream, "will you hold me?"

loafs incontinence down a slippery
little list of lazy, inopportune, poorly timed insecurities
PERK ... [ long pause ] ... PEARL
maybe the only real creations of our lives
will arise from troubled times

i cannot live in this vessel, i cannot live outside this vessel
i will deplane whatever it is in my hand, harboring, harboring
the port is but my flesh quivering beneath my flesh

what pet taught to fear the incomparable
'i' through which we know the world?

fear him, subtle, push at his temple and knock
himself from the horse of *GOD* at every triple-fork
Bacchus, Mana, Commissioner, Persephone, Necropolis
my followers will know you for your kindness and warm kindred.

i am handcuffed by thought trailing through a river
throat warm and wild, you will find a maze without escape.

24 November 2009


How brave those eyes, sidelong and lonely
Tender, stretched knowing and pangs struck
Across an anvil stretched from tip to toe.

Fingers first then greed comb over pelted arms
Posture like John from his Master, many fairer
Deign no greater good, abandon no lower canvas.

After disappearing, the blinking coastal air pants
Fever inhaling the deeper reds of the little girl's sunset
No one lonely: 'The still sand warmer on the beach.'


The dog dashes past
What fills the basket
Or the tall red bin
Itself, a matter of time
Breaking morning light
Our hours so fast, so
Suddenly ataxic. His claws
Clanking on the tile floor
Nail prospective, withering son.

23 November 2009

is a metaphor

the most important image in adulthood
(is a metaphor) she only seems to be standing
black hair bouquet on a pink blanket & arms
arch above her head, fingers spin a smokey web

emphatic, elastic with a rage
insulting passion, real passion
nothing about, and knows no subtle range

all egg shells, at this second.

22 November 2009

9th Street & 4th Avenue, You are Many Things, First and Last of Which is Not Me

Half-naked, dear wondering about the middle of the street
& you hear it, the water exhaling underneath
the sweet music none can see
floating like an oily film across the sea
begging for its single match, hungry for change

Half-naked winking dear, a victim of disease
a beautiful messiah caught laughing in the trees
nearby foxes chase quick bees
from the flowers of their dreams
into hurried little traps, which
well, you know where they lead

Half of the buxom dendrophobic, naked dear
scant allowed to know and better we all are
imagination carries us far too far
to the pollen in the catch
smelling like haughty laughter
mixed with lascivious sap
she goes wandering the road
wondering about the midriff of the street

Half-naked dear & near double yellow seams
chains the way together in a certain stitch
each artery arresting beneath a drenched white T
stretched black sheet punched through with teeth
loose iridescent bolts she wheels around to catch
oncoming stars and rain, dizzy umbra, spinning steep

Half-naked dearest sleep, incidental sting, trips on soppy shoestrings
and passion pink mangles wither black like a sleepy kiss upon a cheek.

16 November 2009


Please keep close, the best part's almost here ( Anatomy of a tear, fearful & round blossoms from, replant redolent dead sordid bunch watches weather & peels hopeless basketweaver emerges berryless handfuls of sweat unpaved, though traversed brand skin in one motion stripped back reveals crosshatched patterns of sweet. Tear fearful from weather unpaved sweet ) soon we will swim in the cool cave full of warm water.


my biggest fear; my big fears; i fear many big things
: look at this wall, you are my love and for me
_____________ you must follow my eyes;
_____________ and then i will judge you
: my grand & elaborate career, you are my love
_______________________ and for me
_______________________ you must be free;
my fear biggest my fear biggest my ____ be free-er

: collapsible proposition: this is why you are dear
__________________ this
__________________ again

oh no, this i can hold in my hand
_____  there is enough room beside
collapsible presupposition: i will carry you
into the bedroom, though you will not undress

: candle, wick, flame, storm cloud, dance
( i fear many big things
________________ ) you will not lie
( my big fears
________________) i can hold it in my hand
( my biggest fear
________________) and then i will judge you ( ...

Untitled 11152009, 9:08 p.m.

"Monday. Delectatio morosa. I spend my doleful days in dumps and dolors." - Lolita, HH, VN: Page 43

"The dream has gone but the baby is real / Oh, you did a good thing" - This Night Has Opened My Eyes, SPM

Untitled 11152009, 9:08 p.m.

The haze flattens out as the bus pulls away
Ahead, to the right, three Russian hags gorge
Bend awkwardly at the waist, their object no feint
You see yelping smears of eye shadow first, then allow
Knives of cake-thick perfume, the bus reels, stereoscopic buzz
Over the steel-lattice grating stretched across the overpass
White thread spills past the womens' chattering yellow teeth

The hum weaves, targets used to being broken
Appear in the road guiltless and naive like a pedestrian
Drunk on thumbs and dumb with wit; how a smell
Can be a manufacture of providence, yarn braids between
And disappears underfoot to you-do-not-know-where
No foreign sounding utterance nor vicious scent

We are alone, again. Prick-wise and solemn
With shoulder-blades each rough brick counted
One-by-one by the inbetweens the corridor begins to boil
Your hands my hands your fingers my fingers your fantasy my fantasy.

15 November 2009

Lying (for Zelda, with a Moving Grey)

For the sake of taut rope
Your true voice stranded
Swaying island of chords

Tears one-by-one
Time darting through age
Trembling uncertain eye.

Untitled 11122009 (part 1)

"Every generation has a keyhole to which its eye is pasted." - Mary McCarthy, 1953

"Don't push too hard." - Family Motto, 1945-2010

I'm just as callous for facts
as the next cough, itch or cancer
the pillow all hardness, air of
unlit matches, spread over evenly
with a clear

Continuing on hungry when conventional
wisdom so damnably at-the-ready:
"Touch this side of the rainbow,"
one man still;

Pasted over time and filial sinew
spiny fingers
to the ultraviolet rend      truth
     a great hobby       that skyward riposte;

Always a fall; bridle cage & lock pistons
now     because     this falling always:
"Keep yr hands close, yr eyes in focus,"

11 November 2009

Isolation's Axis

Isolation's axis
Tumbling past proportion
& barrels hidden
Consequential mast look
Toward the moving end; extreme
Isolation's axis
In distraction & obvious
Back to gravity
At gravity's back
The system's not dizzy
Just preening and fat
Isolation's axis
Any sky red
But the proper bevel
Takes lifetimes of practice
You cannot afford
Not today & not with love
Or patience; no secret
Isolation's Axis

10 November 2009


Introduction A - On What He Will Say, For The Kid

Take care & grind down
scraping into the semi-solid base
right there before the adoration
nothing more than no-actualization
offering pure potential & what
can be done with these now?

downwind the seed coat will break
inharmonious, awkward shuffling feet
free of metaphor you ask the same questions
of someone new,

Chapter IA - Fine Powdered Constructs

The eyes no longer stir
or boil the room in sleep,
dead and drying starfish
tasteless story of ill redemption
their portending limb repeats

the malevolent scene: without heart
softshoe or backward little oceanic steps
automaton of function, certainly motley
but perspective, remember

the eyes no longer stir

malevolent with recurring context
ultimately though
found fine powdered constructs
and cracking confectionery shells
once baking replaces biology
swiftly we'll move our bowels,

Chapter 1B - The Mole

"I'm going to be going back and forth a lot, just to give you a heads up."

"It is one of the paradoxes of painting ... that the immortality or timelessness of of the image is a kind of death-in-life."

There remains one fine difference
& let it remain, not linger
between the close repeating theme
of that foot
and the broken similarities of this other

label a heretic, or a simple reader
but there are facts: one hirsute mark
shifted three inches to the tip of a nose
will by laymen always be called a mole

so it goes

these powers no less
when left to nature's latent fury'
or braced upon a softer throne

but then they tap & in their beaten blur
stir the stars as from a child's breath
size foreshortens cosmically condensed
into fleshy powder in a compact
and applied to the tragically flattened face

being equal is not a conscious grace.

09 November 2009

Aphorism on Promising Pain

the initials carved into the tree
out front of grandma's house

an incantation, proving
nothing of magic in this world

soil better for the seeds
bucolic burials left to feed

lies uproot, the defying tree still stands
the letters will not dissolve with rot

what erases or creeps upon, mires what one once knew
none shall know, but there is smooth, healthy skin there

the sun through leaves makes this clear
no pain from bark can disappear.

08 November 2009

Catherine Across The Outerbridge, For J.

still without the white wind
but aching, then a cough
no, the sky palms its cool rain
toward the eastern shore's aching eyes
prone, though immune to the festering sun
fluid-filled lungs      &
your scream across the outerbridge
never not but a bell unrung

so inside
though abandoned missing
half, thought not betrayed or flayed flat
and catching that which fills me
one can do so much
behind the love of windows