Consecrate energy,
Obey the demand.
You travel a million matters
From your source.
Tag: writing
The Making of a Biography
Letters overtake me,
Solid empty book that I am.
U kisses me,
I abuses me.
Synchronicity of text makes
My whole story work together
Like a glass machine.
But it isn’t about me.
Book of uneditable extractions.
Hot New Music Video
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
Why Do I Like Being Alone?
Why do I like being alone?
Cast iron smells hellacious.
Voices are diggers,
And my skin is soft.
Victims hiss when
Their yoke is sucked
From their mouths like a breath.
Spare me the torture
Of day sailers
And night sailors.
I am coming to a stop within me.
No cracker
Ever tasted so neat.
Hungry Scavengers
Calligraphy of rain,
Gentle messages stolen from a cloud,
A mother sacrificing her life
For future generations of mothers.
Spilling overtures of relief go door to door
To every blade of wheat.
Only the scavengers will go hungry this year
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.
Light and Heat
What does the light ray feel
Falling to her death on
My skin?
When the end is near
She does not perceive darkness
Where she is, the dark is not.
When she is gone
She is cancerous trash
The heat is her child
And will move on
To other mothers
Maybe she feels what I do
When I close my eyes
Wilted.
Hell Is
It rains on desert,
Granola,
Landsscape.
The jagged rocks crusted
With love letters to Dante.
He had the levels of hell all wrong.
There is so much dancing,
But the music is atonal,
And pestilence bores holes through
The dancers’ feet.
Hell is a life if obligator dancing.
Miniature Moon 