Neco AvisThe birds preach:"empathy, all thingsbeneath the arms of oaks;all the wingless toilers of the earth.Turn a kind eye on your lotand we will gaze down upon you,approvingly."And the men beneath,so busy carving arrowsdo not reply.
StonesTake your time, intravenously;like patient stones that never trybut polish overas other shapes pass.
Give Up, SomeOur intentions slipped quietoutbeneath the doorto let love run freein the dusky streetslike some wild killerjust out of jail.
Remember, OhDeja; like the taste of iron, suddenly and soft, unprovoked laughter [ c o l d ye llo w c ur ls ] and you,with love between pressed pageslike a gun in the top drawer;there was a lioness nipping at my collar bonebut she never comes home anymore.
Per Alius NominaFingerpainted post-traumatics strung up god's eyesspun and twisted little comets ; sad young things thatlearn quick how you
One LessT i cks are a consistent bed partnernot to be confused with the humming of ceiling fansor the thrumming of cardiologist fascination not to be mistaken for the soft exhalation of company in tangled threads or pallid flesh;certainly they are similar and quiet audible reactions can drown within each otherbut if you listen
Arthouse FearIt struck softly; as though epiphany itself were unprepared and thus not committed to the impact - which did nothing to reduce the shock.I was living in a studio with windows that were really mirrors that faced inward only all of the reflective surfaces were melting so that one was shown a bent, macabre version of the world within, which seemed a fitting commentary until the surfaces began to splinter and like a cannon or a child's baseball words came tumbling in with the sour air, the hollering streets and the scrambling masses; words like so many well-mannered gents into the grand opening of an art gallery in which every piece portrayed a terrified child cowering from wolves of a clearly phallic nature.All at once with the air and the streets and the masses I could see and understood - as though the punchline of "us" had been reached and I were frozen there, in the moment just before laughter, living the lives of every bleeding heart with raised hands nearly compressing in applause
Of Poets and CosmonautsThe astronauts we abandonedon the finite expanses of blasted whiteriddled the empty withstark black lines and sharp curves letters built from letters and mailed home shipped by ship to our rockthey said: "we will not mine your pagesdrinking deep of sadness,with only these fleshy suits to tether us to a universe of terror."
Paint ThinnerLove is a parade of flesh knit with daisieslike a single pine freshener strung up in some grungy meat lockera universe of nouns an' vowels an' verbs could never wash the smell of rutting homo sapiusour affectations area sadistic "fashion noir" show minus the clothing
A talk with Dad about his cancerI put my trust in the pilot,the man in the cockpitto get me home.With closed eyes he adds,I can live with that.
coffee, two creamsa fine line separatesthe cream and sugarfrom the roasted black
HypocriteFalling down againI feel alive when I'm dead -This sin, my torn soul
firecrackers have feelings tooflames meant for greatnessonly burn with oxygentake each breath slowly.
Why Not Me?It should have been me,I can see it in your eyes; sheDoesn’t know of us.You’ve always pictured me asYour bride, I hope you wise up.
Will I Speak?ICould sayPerish now!But would I speak?No...
True and HaikuArt is lingerie;silk and satin draped uponour starving egos.