Have you heard the long note

from the distant? Talent

should be like that-


Blind-ing, beautiful snake,

father-mask. I, too am

careful of this world-


When he speaks there are

no stars, eclipsed cold house,

a budding cactus thriving

in the desert.

In the course of life, we hear

many lullabies. While there is

still a history of darkness,


our ears will not adjust

to light. In dreams, his tongue

becomes a field of poppies




n m n

Père Ubu


Like a mute or autistic
child, a flowerless weed
that would-be rose

there are limitations.

Of the vacuous form
of water, who can say
this clearness lacks

relation to substance?

A metaphor for soul
is wind; how faithful
to direction as it shrinks

and swells?

If I imagine blackness
into blossom, a word into
a thousand worlds, God's voice

speaking from an empty church

what escapes me?


Superbly fitting, how they judged her
for her lack of skill; did she not have a heart,
an ear, an eye, a chair, a story to tell-
a voice unread, unseasoned?

A masterpiece is not aware
of imperfection, the soiled hand
a message from the fields, a crooked back
reminiscent of the winding hills

that suffer nothing
for their scattered paths.

The taste of soil cannot be captured
by the pen; beauty of the ink distinctly
rising from within. While strangers read
the seamless novel and writers, write

the flawless word ... the poet prays
for un-assembled dreams.

Bleat's Hat

Grandmamma she wore a pillbox hat festooned with baubles and whatnot’s. Round roping her neck a scarf made from the rarest silk moue, a gift from the tinsmith, whose own hat was made from calf’s tongue and bleat’s testicle. He wore tied round his neck (his neck of spun tin and shale) an ascot cut with shears shearer than stone-ticking tick.

Through a Window

At last, I came to a stopping place,
a period at the end
of a long nonsensical sentence,

a stretched piece of rope,
worn thin before it separates

the final step
into darkness.

In the morning, it begins again,
the soul everyday astounded
by narrow shafts of light

pouring in

through a small window.


Teeming with occasional tantamount-s [there is, sporadically, a little that is equal to the teem within] it is this that varies my aptitude for tatters [by tatters I really do mean the bits and pieces that write themselves into quick comebacks] before the rush of vain smothers in, and I substitute each step with a sprinkling of dedication [which is not up to it, but makes up for], left in close proximity to earlier astonishments [contagious perhaps] and take up intrepid idleness, inventing evidence with which to probe bemusement [morsel collection] – consider the scale of it – with my finger on resist, confident all can be abandoned in place of missing details, a final version of antidote single-handedly absorbs itself.

All The Pretty Butterflies

There are two parts to existence:

being alive


knowing it.

In the dream

the fire

was protected

by the lion

and a mare.

Once, she burned

her hand in hot oil

with a scar

in the shape

of a butterfly.

Some things no one

else will understand.

We are going blind.

We are senseless.

What lion roars like

a father? Whose voice

neighs like a mother?

Who ignited all

the pretty butterflies?

drridomethre (1)

((((( la mère de douleur se tenait debout ( III )


FluxBeatrice 2

Called Me Dead

One moment J is pushing the hot wheels with both hands and spirit. Down Goodwill avenue he flies past astonished impressed faces. He never hits the bottom.

An electron sparks binary Coup d'etat. A nauseous ring tone emanates from a nauseous cellphone. J should have puked instead.

He never defies his fate. And fate won't ever complain.

A tattooed hand picks up the tech. The hello crashes into the void.

In the second story window of Wilson's grocery the mangled machine smokes and waits. Blood and gore drips to the ground, unto the mob.

After the wreckage is hacked away, when the mob has returned to its lair the cellphone hits the ground.


By special request


The trees have ears again, today
I am telling them about imagination.

The slender sprout at the foot
of his great oak mother listens

carefully as he should; he'll be
wider than a redwood cedar

before another crazy human
tries to have a conversation

with a twig. He asks me about
the definition of a dream, if

it's like the ghost of wind moving
through leaves without being caught

or shine of beetles poking through
soil when the moonlight reflects

off their jet black wings like
dark, wet jewels, then disappear.

These are tree dreams, I assure him.
Human dreams are more like sap

that drips down from a wound
in your bark or like winter when

you're hair falls out, you close
your eyes for awhile and remember

summer until summer
comes back. We talked

until the moon woke up;
the moon did not approve.

When Winter Is The Only Game In Town

When Winter is the only game in town
When the breath of snow blows toward
The cold hands of light lit by a far off sun.
Stars! Stars look after me!
I am the man who sees the thousand eyes of night
Kept in a tin box.
I am the man who bleeds rivers of baptized tears
That can no longer save me from myself.
I am the man lost in the poetic forest of knowledge,
Where the wild beasts of alphabet roam the dead letters of lost poems.
I am the man I say, who inked his way pass the foot steps
Of fountain pens and began to weep the classicist’s sorrow
When man made water drowned the history in my head.
I am the man who swallowed the tail wind of a blue jay
When the sky spoke to me about the heat escaping the anger of the sleeping streets.
I am the man who has lost himself in the discarded breath full of broken
English spoken into the stairway of an open ear.
I am the man who weeps to keep his weeping safe in the palm of my cupped hands; it’s a prayer full of teeth that will bite the hunger of the weak.
I am the palsied man who imports the gospel of birds praying to the tree God to keep them safe from international greed and ecological ignorance.
I am the man who you must face alone the deserted way
Of snow filled night breathing in itself in again and again.
I am the man who take cognizance of every sound hiddenIn the stance of a begging prayer.
I am the man who has gather the wind in his fists
To throw it back against the tolerance of discrimination.
I am the man who would be a song on the lips of the hungry before a table set with mounds of words about the food of a well filled belly and the hunger of wolves.
I am the man who washes his hands in the warm-red blood of the holy God of words struck speechless by the false balance of abomination toward the integrity of a wounded wisdom.
Tonight, there are no stars to speak of.

The violet swirls of light sliding into

low set harbors, the tunneling sky

will not reconcile our differences.

Black waves curling in like oiled ropes