Recycled

Poetry has yet to emerge;
my life! where have you been?
This song I sing is not for
the faint-hearted; suicide is not
for children. O where has my beauty
gone? When will I be crushed,

recycled?

This is the long hallway to
another hallway; a staircase
down to further down. How I
remember the snow's descent
from higher beginnings- some
call it drifting.

Have we forgotten that God exposes
pieces of Himself; a sackcloth of posies,
a naked ray of tumbling light,
the wind-bruised bird diving wildly
through an impossible depth.

Hitchhiker

One-Eyed Man

I have a theory; the female
is invented. Like strings or
particles, the body quantum,

the curve of hip, the white
nest of skin, the animal eyes

grown accustomed to night
like the surface of moon.

Understand, men are cumbersome,
gravity, a heavy hand, dark rapid
heartbeats followed by apnea;

selective creature, a form
of death. One-eyed man,

he holds her anonymous face
in his hands as if he loved her.

His head was 40% volume

samstuffandstuff

Twin Mystery Verbs

Fajarowicz gathering
ajar · uaineas crisply brought
owl-light wisps across azure
ignoble fall

Cthulhu chirg · festoons druid
rill's indigo · ignoble
fallout ajar · lampoon crink
Culhwch ballast

Your Living Room is a Trip

" !s that Velour?"

Cracked and Blue

When you greet me, remember
who I am. Because I hold
myself for ransom like a bomb
or tightly structured as

fibers in a crystal

does not mean that I am
ruined. You're such a child
all fur and feathers, a cloud
with bullets in its head.

When I am private, cold
cracked, corrosive, blue
put my body on the coals
to heat my bones.

8-

My friends,
Aren't you glad
You're not
Me?

Plastic Ruler Wood Ruler

Our family went shopping for school supplies one Sunday at the local shopping center. I noticed that plastic rulers cost more than wood rulers even though the wood ones were nicer and I thought that maybe it was because the plastic ones were longer.

Sneaking Suspicion

Just to let you know that ninjas make it happen. Oh gosh, those silent clothes they wear, and swear to be skillful. They hike up the clouds and reverse all directions, just to stick a pin in an improbable map. Once that pin is planted, tho, you see the point of their effort. That map is Tom Cruise's nose, mostly glorious. Tom's smile is a vanquishing, with a salute to the other props kept neatly in the parlour. Where will Tom point his nose, in future days such as these? Let's try to make the summit, wherefrom much can be seen. Well, actually, the sum of our view is the tops of clouds, as sturdy as your thought. Remember your essential day, when you could stand on those clouds, even the surly tall ones, and bridge a world or two? When did that act lose its political side? We've got Everest in our hands. It purrs, so small in its geologic niftiness. Mallory and Irvine are the nicest of statues, dedicated to the preservation of the last whatever on the list. They took ninja to the laundry and bobbled the edge of crevasse with such a peer group sense of comprehension. In their deaths, well, it took time to draw us in. Now it has become national, right on those Everest slopes (Everest no longer wants sacredness in its tribe). There's a dusting of snow on our heads now, 17 feet high. The ninjas have decided to help. They've made the shadows white.

last March at the Federal Building

my crystal steropticon’s fallen short of sending
the right images to your left eye.
rapid response to promises generally stick it to
bright-eyed technicians burning
in some grey room in a federal building. how
does perception of sunlight
play into the birds’ singing when April’s faded
photos go 2-dimensional?
it’s trees muscling their way—roots-and-all—   
onto the LED screen, beneath
the tracks, up north behind the cabin, and up
wind of Gorilla Island at the zoo:
“Comrades! Shall we deny our natures,
refusing to chase bright
green tennis balls around the pen?” the other
gorillas eyeball the speaker with
pent-up resignation. there has been no simian
Karl Marx. even so, winter
must yield to uproarious springtime yet again.
the trees whistle like large land
mammals. the train pursues its next destination
like an eyeless journeyman with
cracked fingers and a stick that plies the roadway
through a fog of time just this
side of urban singularity. passion should put an end
to anything more decadent,
should put on more deoderant instead, and the clock
pontificates with its hands pointing
west, even as the soil shakes off its last image from dusk
to night before. no surge of vision
to spot in all this endless mindfulness. hasn’t sameness
run its course at night yet?
Sachsen-Weimar is in the East, which is red, and timed
to go off when most of the
population’s asleep—too bad for them, when it’s all
cold and nothing to see and
a snow alert passes itself off as a ghost with cracked
eyes made of crystal. more
chocolate selves go to sleep with such a ruckus on
than escape the hampers of fate,
their rusted shutters groaning together, hold fast
for all time, happy to suck honey
or at eggs like some domestic bear-goddess whose paws
rend wet laundry as she takes it
out of the washer. where once was a hamper, now comes
the point in our program for
a blue-grey kind of alliteration. nobody waits for the
Ambassador of Antecedence
anymore. stuck fast to the rolling uncertainties
of dilemmas and resolutions.

Time Line

Now it's done; the direction
of a body shoved through time.

Gravity, the stress of beauty,
feet walking barefoot on a bed

of thorns, muscles of a mouth
tense as rope, the optic nerve

gulping light, beads of light
running down its fleshy throat.

Look back. Pull the reins.
The clock is running fast,

very fast. See time run. See
it burn. Here is the shadow

where we were born. Here, tails
of light curving through the sky.

There, at the end, the teeth
of total darkness tears apart

its offspring.

E pur si cambia

In Arcadia, I am
Waiting for the light to change
Green into red forest to fire
Summer not summer
Light that changes in the moment I look
And my before has flown
And there is no rift! No temporal crevasse
There is only this point of
The body wanting what it wants, now
Waiting for it
The kind of story we have been waiting for
My friend she has newly rejoined me she thinks we will go on as before
And I will again be made to diagnose ills
Miss Insight that was, sadnesses' mistress
How can she think this
The boy with the narrow hips
Has become someone different
His space in my brain his place in my body is
Assured guaranteed non-negotiable and yet
He's gone I can't have him I'll have to have others
Pull you into my lap
Now this man was also his beauty
Not, beauty not beauty, but
Flux
Does it, do I, will I change
Red into green
Words are shapes, too
Stills
The beauty of them breaking hearts and ribs
In moving frames I see
The light, on, off
A man and a woman on a bicycle, laughing
And I'm watching another
His body a reed that leans
White birds circle his wrists
No, it's his shirt cuffs flapping, mid-song
And he is a poet singing on stage
And his chest is bare of prior association
And yet it does change

Opulent Thunder Lump with ANISTON

I'm the captain of a composite wing
and I hate the books of reading

a large spooky dog in the
window watches the action

Taste Gustav the guru of gunnery
if you did not succeed in repairing
the things that you have carried
to my attention

remember me, I pray, and
have patience

The objective of Jennifer
Aniston's life is to kill
all the "surface inhabitants"
only to blanket to the last
minute some meddlesome kidskin

Anyyawn, new "to the interview" where
"alchemist's can happen," and not

does it really import that we have
laughed if honestly we took
bad care of ourselves? Jennifer
Aniston has been called Man
of the GQ human children year

usually is supposed to be similar

Which thing is in with the
bathed point of J.An' s crotch zone?

Arrest the puhleeeezzzz of those tendencies...