Consecrate energy,
Obey the demand.
You travel a million matters
From your source.
Tag: poem
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Rock with respect.
You’ll be dead
And this song will be
Filling the oldies station
Like a bucket.
Rhythm connotes meaning
More than words do sometimes.
Body movement is our base language.
Away
He doesn’t see the mountain
Under his feet as he travels
Only thinks that the
World has pulled away
From him
The Last Painting
Labored seeing –
The artist as his canvas drifts away.
The IV hums a little.
They only let him squeeze
The morphine button every five minutes.
4 out of every 5 minutes
Is a dog gnawing on his body.
Please…
He begs…
One more painting and I will go
Without complaint.
Less of You
The advertisement promised diligent bread.
The sort of thing that will eat for you
While you bask prideful in a fashionable,
Contemporary hunger.
The world loves you as it loves itself.
That’s why it wants less of you, Dear.
Of course.
Don’t doubt.
Pout.
There is a new job coming,
To be done by someone else.
Beer
Beaches of lime and slow.
We are home to the most unpopular beer.
I have a lot to drink here
but eat slowly.
Threatening texture
Physical.
Justice
Justice is a poor best friend,
Sticking knives in me
Where I can see them.
I reach for the cookie
He slaps me gently
I smell the desiccated marsh
He holds my hand on rollercoasters.
It wouldn’t be fair
For me to die when I
Have been so innocuous
But the tide looked
Innocuous and the
Fish is dead.
I am not a reed in the marsh.
When he takes me home
He always takes the
Long route
Adam
Help the baby in cashmere
This is a heinous place
To be born.
I have been in the spider’s
Web a long time,
Most of me liquified.
Most.
She keeps a little of
Me alive
For amusement
There are bitter stones
Everywhere
With no water to
Wear them away
Find a garden somewhere
Lay him down beside the bees
Name him Adam.
Touch Needed
Balloons murmur at Velvet’s party. So much soft rubbing in the dim light. Silks and their secretaries took the night off for this. Behold the lonely dark in the corner, desperate for touch.
Prose Poem
The well-off at the ossified marina count the crusty salt crystals. Orange corn poking from the windows of my old home dare me to grind my teeth on it. At the mouth of the bay of wine, bad memories teeter. The division between food and teeth is stark. The division of drink and thought soft. She strays from the wine to my old house and its belligerent farm.
Rough draft
Miniature Moon 