Tag: writing
Time
In a journal in well written white,
the presupposition of posies,
the assumption of risk.
Beyond books,
cinders drift lonely through cities
too hot to feel their burn.
All that dust
that pushes pavement forward
to an unforeseeable finale is from
dust to dust
in a fourth world, my mother
cooks salmon on a simulated Saturday.
On a Sunday superimposed on the
wall of my one thousandth year,
my daughter wears sapphires,
asks me for a pond.
Age burrows in me like a tick.
I will write it away.
Mascara Woods
The inept snow crowds
around the fire,
plotting and dying.
Some terrains cannot be traversed.
In the mascara woods,
children clump together
in the latest
cloud of today’s breath.
Bleary eyed,
the fox fixates on his quarry,
the weakest of the drey.
Remove
Cut the phantom from my back.
I am unannounced and unfrequented.
A wavelength no one sees,
a dizzy, dazzling particle
known to science only as
“effusive missing.”
Schrödinger’s dancer dancing in
the dark.
Remove from me the red, digitized light
of sovereignty and certainty.
Faults
I’m free of rain.
I show my picture to the mirror.
I was not busy in my shiny days
and now I see
clouds of supplication ahead,
burning bronze.
My shape shifting selfishness
Folded into a skin box,
Origami.
My life was born for a while,
between sameness and joy.
Ten times I memorize myself,
candy candle
I have to light,
To guide kaleidoscope perception
Back home to me.
Interdependence is difficult and soft,
ad infinitum.
Escaping the Warren
The simple grave
of the rain.
The driving wind
makes tracks through parched prairie.
The leanest rabbit escapes the warren.
Teeth marks, bone, thin hair.
Beyond the metronomic society
nourishing sustenance.
This field is sacred and untouched
by the rushing realism of
corporeal men.
Through the bladed brown,
The cottontail prances,
grateful and alone.
Dead
Dead now, I move to the grass
and develop a conscience like film.
Untitled 271
In the cemetery
trapped sin and simplicity
tinged with regret.
Under beds,
bruised bits of life.
I have called the wind
on my trite telephone
to speak with my lover in
the vintage language of distance.
The comic book store has
Only tragic books left.
One hero is asphyxiating for fun.
Another scrubs dishes in rum.
Beasts –
blue built and bundled,
and bridled brides.
Brutes weaving wispy webs.
Uncommunicative
My good mental conferences expel
content behind two leaky blue bags.
My tongue is holy and broken.
Fields behind me
Shy away.
My bracelets are sharp for them.
My Lover
Cracked moon
like a mind,
or still birth balloon.
Glowing over gold fields of grain,
illuminating icy igloos,
milky white cataract of craters
crawling with crusty cultures like
a search engine.
He sees my body contort alone,
my skin cold as fright,
and if he sees my lover breathing and being
away from me
he says nothing.
Miniature Moon 