Wednesday, March 12, 2014

willows



moated castle
apricot and black 
on dusky silver moon

starlit picnic willows
weeping willows
seaside willows
windmill rows

rows and rows

her hands held
for a moment
a moment

a sea of tulips

willows
and tulips

silver sliver of
dissonance

a sea of tulips
vivid
ablaze w/a vengeance  

Monday, December 9, 2013

vinegar



drink
the vinegar
fortify your bones
your bones
make your bones
strong

your shadow strong
distinct so sharp
crisp
as snow

Friday, October 18, 2013

Spiral


Autumn atrium,
spindle-legged sting 
felt to a marrow.

Table, mallards,
and a coveted prize,
black Irish eyes, 
slit to a narrow, 
back bed ebon buttons,
and what masses,
what lies, puddled glasses,
coveted prize.

(Chant to an enemy,
cover your eyes,
cover your eyes...)

Sunny little rug
by a door,
portal abhor,
adore.

(Some I knew,
some were new.)

Wall of white,
roof of green,
shocking blue
above, between.

What 
I am saying is,
what
I am really saying is:
Despise, despise, despise!
Because my December,
the loveliness withers, dies.

Monday, September 30, 2013

Chevron


Don't speak to me of violence.

Violence brisks your step, 
schools your thoughts,
is the beverage you raise.

(Violence is the beverage you raise.)

Violence is your roof, 
root and ledge, steam,
tide, cream in belly.

(Violence is the cream in your belly.)

Violence is your river.
From its bed, gaze at Crux, Scorpius,
agog at shiver gleam.

(Violence is your river.)

You walk in violence,
indigenous skulls crackle
under filigree boot, dangerous calendar.

(Don't speak to me of violence.)

Your violence a-flutter in futures,
doled in windowless dungeon,
bleaching, investing a bone sown.

It glistens.

It glistens.

It grows...

(Violence is your tender, your tone.)

Don't speak.

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Helped



He helped himself
to cartons
of cigarettes.

He helped himself
to bottles
of rye.

He grabbed a file
of photographs:
pictures of automobile 
wrecks
and airplane 
crashes.

The wall-to-wall
owns a patina
of grime.

Blinds drawn, 
he's on his way
to fame.

Monday, March 25, 2013

About 3



Checker cabs,
red white panel
van, Sam
Flax, Buicks and
Fords and trucks, trucks, trucks
race north,
race south.

"He can lie
his fucking ass off,
I don't care."

Hands in
jacket pockets,
waiting for light.