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Neco AvisThe birds preach:
"empathy, all things
beneath the arms of oaks;
all the wingless toilers of the earth.
Turn a kind eye on your lot
and we will gaze down upon you,
And the men beneath,
so busy carving arrows
do not reply.
StonesTake your time, intravenously;
like patient stones that never try
but polish over
as other shapes pass.
Give Up, SomeOur intentions slipped quiet
beneath the door
to let love run free
in the dusky streets
like some wild killer
just out of jail.
like the taste of iron, suddenly
and soft, unprovoked laughter
[ c o l d ye llo w c ur ls ]
with love between pressed pages
like a gun in the top drawer;
there was a lioness nipping at my collar bone
but she never comes home anymore.
Per Alius NominaFingerpainted
twisted little comets
sad young things
One LessT i cks
are a consistent bed partner
not to be confused with the humming of ceiling fans
or the thrumming of cardiologist fascination
not to be mistaken for
the soft exhalation
in tangled threads or pallid flesh;
certainly they are similar
and quiet audible reactions
can drown within each other
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 abandoned
on the finite expanses of blasted white
riddled the empty with
stark black lines and sharp curves
letters built from letters and mailed home
shipped by ship to our rock
"we will not mine your pages
drinking deep of sadness,
with only these fleshy suits to tether us
to a universe of terror."
if you need help making it through the dayremember:
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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