Previous month:
February 2016
Next month:
April 2016

March 2016

asked to lean into a startling argument for a late offer of joy

And I could do that. With blades

or without. Sing along a siren goes.

Doubly human in our concentration.

I could do that & bend it forward.

The Flawed Ones advanced right up

to the mirror into which I looked

for my most essential parts. Done

out of the blessing. Ain’t opting

for the land. But the joke of a book.

You, bright flower of star-hood. You,

arrested with volumes of notes under

your jacket. All that sweet music.

Prepared me for this annunciation.

That winter is an eagle’s blue tendon.

That spring hadn’t stopped trying to

be the smart kid with flashy eyes.

Ready now to walk away from my strong

adequacies and/or to embrace whole

skies of heart-felt gospel giddiness.


see this is how you say

Now as to my most subtle feelings. They’d aim to be

so far under the radar that not even Google’d find

them. But they present themselves for a photo on

such and such day month and year. And they appear.

Not too grimy or important, not suffused with rosy

saturations. Normally inarticulate. Bricks under ice.


all the history

We don’t have time for it isolate as oranges.

No I have plenty of it time that is plenty.

Lives like au revoir bientot as scribbled.

Sobbing important scribbling deaths anywhere.

What came of you after following a thread.

After the grievous end of our younger ways.

He flew to Paris and we didn’t hear anything.

Until he was dead. Then I came off belief as.

A comic that hits the last frame and then what.

We decided to call our days a terrible mess.

But they were just cups of coffee rooms of us.

Smiling becoming plastering wriggling trying.

To what end the obits will have their say but.

Here’s the thing the thing is we knew it had.

A light a brightness about it uncovered though.

Nobody was looking no matter we got it okay.


one perfect one

Well, I don’t have time for it.

If I’d reckon any act against

the time I have left (unknown),

I’d never

do anything. Since nothing’s

worth the everything of what

life’s left. Is it.


As if I were the one who

put this on the table, I’ll

manage the butter, arrange

the dark seeds in the jam.


by degrees

You’d hardly know what. It is.

Scars & bracketed light. Books

emptied out. Room still. Very

steady as balanced. & breathing

shut. At the door. Jets on

clouds in old shirts. Say

it’s permitted. This observation

composed of an allowance. Found

more than made. An epic. Even.


lost the right to it

a screwed up word

introduced & sounding

like Bartok makes me

bass & drum it all over

the known places known

to stones & mossy thin

trees known to climbers &

cattle not composed of

alphabets of bad turns &

eagle nest hypnosis

i mean a word scored

& tripled


no more about seeds

having said at last
again

my assertions are endemic
to

a certain form of
obedience

something bent like our
necks

i say again that
answers

like a mass of
urgent

vehicles off to national
airport

expect their arrivals will
simplify

everything when in fact
they

will settle into an
orifice

of inattention not yet
settled

so where are we
then