Have you ever seen smoke rise when the wind
is still, when there is only the humming
of distant cars, of rustling in the trees,
when night has descended upon every
quaking thing but a candle, or even
a cigarette? The ash falls, the wax drips,
building its own eternal resting place.
There is no regeneration. Only
remains remind of the first flame that birthed
the glow that thinks it will burn forever;
or else the trail of smoke that danced upwards,
seen only against the lights of others,
and if not, then never, not once, at all.


A Hunch

Unchained, the shoulders expand,
drop the boulders on the phantom's
feet breathing on your nape. You:
older, vigorous, yet new.
Look: the horizon seething,
although, surely someone
must have seized it. Already
a native sweats, freezes,
thinks occasionally, sometimes sneezes.
And his father worked the soil.
No. His father barely toiled, it was
his grandfather, if that.
The ground's intact, just like here.
Your shoulders only fill with fear
of running on your treadmill again,
to flee, as you have been.
You've been kind, but it's been done.
You've been wet, and you've been numb.
After you sneezed, you narrowed your
reddened eyes and decided to vacuum.
You thought during that, and after that you
stretched to feel life pulsing, to try to feel the power
of your arms in full swing.
It was convincing.
you confirm that by spying
around, you groan, or make any sound to lie.
Can you turn back though? How would you know then, if I
saw you tap your toe? But I, too, show.
Ennui is the twitch of knee
You can see that I, too, movement feign.
That I hunch from a cold neck, unchanged.



I wish I could have not seen
her tumble down to darkness,
for after that there was (it seemed)
only silence as she stumbled over
the tracks in her drunken fog to reach
the dim lights of life above wailing to her,
although that could have been the
train (or rather its breaks screeching)
patiently expecting to inhale its
customary load and spit them out
according to their wishes. But
I wish I could not have seen her
body on the news later because
they could not (obviously)
lift the train right then and there
to get her out from under it,
and so trailed it anxiously,
waiting on the machine to
finally excrete it.
I did not see on the news what
happened to the train, but I assume
it was (naturally) too much of a hassle to
clean the blood off of its stomach.


Taking Down The Painting

chew this
Judas was foolish
soon as the deed was through with
Mr. Iscariot exited stage left
abstract and moot as the moon is
truly useless
our hero returned while
Judas turned slow right then
back left
bereft of all for all he reft
eaten up and powerless

now here's a mess
I confess I've gnawed to death my phantom limb
great betrayer of all of us
drubbing Judas the little dunce
drawing life from olden rust
it snickers offstage and sings thus

I'm the wound in the wall!
I've left you a line,
just tug it to call!

it pulls at the spine
in its loneliness
it misses a friend's caress I guess
lonely spider wire
I bite your silk but too soon come
the fangs and then
the abscess
why gnaw this
why tear rip slit or saw this
it's no use
after all it's only a noose to take off
it's loose

now silent but o it hung,
so it sung
the scar tissue now fading as
dust covers the wall anew
so at last entombing you

view our room
a great graveyard of the past
here rest tired wings and broken masts
we will flutter
we will sail but will not last

do not ask when why or who
sow your seeds among the dead
walk instead among the few
content you'll grow as others grew
drift and row
without rue.


A House Built on Burial Grounds

you and I are not alike
ruin, I and
you alight
you usurp the
lunar light
you efface the beauty
of the night
you incite the graying passing
of my light
the incipit of new life is
blighted by the phantoms floating
in and out of waking dreams
stabbing through my memories
smirking on the black veil of my
eyelids squeezed
I wish to be blinded when you haunt me


On the Peace After a Snowstorm

machine whispers hissing
seething in the cities spitting
fumes rolling off black tongues licking
wounds weeping molten bleeding
molting its plate metal beating
its chest a new shrill rhythm emerging
in the cracks under its feet
in the life in the shit heap.

july is the smog of
our blood boiling and
the anguish as the sweet
steals away and the acrid
limps in our nostrils
it shambles it hobbles
assaulting our senses
is the din the discord
tattoos crescendo more
and more and more.

i will bleed no more
when the januair bites
me with my every breath.

i will bleed no more
when tinnitus swells
in place of drones of death.

i will bleed no more
when the snow's silence
brings furious pain.

i will bleed no more
when april comes
with its warm cruel rains.


A Challenge

this stanza is
a desecration of
the infinity around it

examine this word
examine this stanza

look at a blank sheet
of paper and find
the pattern constructing it

continue it


The Poet Upon Entering Heaven

The Poet Upon Entering Heaven

Roused. Leave me weeped, for the weepers have.
I have stood somber vigils at your feet mad
that you secured an exit while I just stood tense.

Now I'm granted a room for myself?
A door in the partition, the key on my neck? Well,
I refuse. My memory rebirthed the inhabitants.

And rightly so, let no strangers be allowed in my Paradise!
Knock and knock, I am content to suck my ice,
Tasting my last White Russian, hints of cream, foggy

Surely there's a reason for this prison I hate.
Before I was not wont to somnambulate
but perhaps I will take up the hobby.


First Passion

First Passion

The back porch on a summer night
the greenness in the dark is
watching and is also watched

A gust sends the bristles in
but the roots warm the blood
flows the daze unhazes

Flurries bite and feed the
flame inside it kilns the snow out
side to slopes to hills to worlds

The sun inside is pulsing blind
and tonguing the dark green
grapples seeming ceaseless caseless chaos

Dawn is always ending somewhere
and beginning in the depths of night
noon is shining on the moon in ecstasy.


When She Walks By

When She Walks By

When she walks by the flowers gossip
and their eyes follow her, alert,
later they water the grass like crying faucets.

The sun pouts, deeply hurt.
The flowers watch her dance
and not the great Inert.

And watch the moon advance
like a cocky bachelor in the sky.
Her eyes! Soon he is but a nightlight in a trance.

Always on the move, butterflies
feel atoms in their stomachs, excited
as I am when she walks by.