Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Green; a film

Quick flash
Cut to:
the spinach field gnashed between my toes     the blood flowing
green in the lithe vapors      
                                         that from above feature the characteristic
of a soggy river's delta
Fade to:
outstretched arms for balance     ambiguous arms
follow the perfect horizon of elbow rising to forearm gently downhill
to hands     green haze of the sun   
                                                      hallucinatory illusion of brushed
fingernails     fleshy like stewed greens

Zoom out:
the imbalanced chemicals that circulate through the brain
plastic wrapped in flesh     armored by the skull
dripping green tints of sweat
                                               hazel reflections of
post-induction of tears     transform the sky into a green void
muffle the soft steps     paint the arms like a forest growth
reaching across toward the break     darker greener     darker
The End.

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Inspired by Actual Events

they're talking on the gulf about a good many things.     The United Kingdom
& the U S of A      establishing a bilateral agenda related to ground control   
focusing on the sea     N A T O participation meeting
filmed and cut into commercially available p-reels   
like Saturday morning marine corps cartoons     tattooed artillery
baked into the remains of desert towns     cooked on the blackened civilian remains
edited down into contingency studies     argued over tea     these labels work together
to ensure the military is correctly portrayed     one authentic move
& UN respectability would be gone--

Saturday, March 10, 2018


he pointed out each cluster of the trinity of crosses
from the passengers seat, he said, 'the thief
                                                                     the fool
                                                                                  the father,'
i couldn't speak, so he laughed and crossed his shoulder,
waiting for uninspired questions from the mute.

our green heaven shook the road loose.
                                                               And fallen letters read
Deeth Star Valley
                             Red Marsh
                                                Blue Plain
                                                                  Red Butte
bordered by a white paint sky a sun shown behind the mount
piercing the central line with white light.
the open gray womb flushed with blood
                                                                 spilling its contents out
drew upon their eyes
                                  soaking the 52 children of the earth
as they climbed to the top of the hill
                                                           rusted nails dripping
from their hands.


the multitude of starched white shirts invade the world.

my notebook pages entombed in the bitter heat of drying machines.

the pages burn blacker than ink. the golden orb of light scratching

through my mortal eye. the glass that becomes a sliver of life

reflecting on the mirror of my face.

Monday, March 5, 2018


they pulled the monster out from under the wreck

he was part of the requisitions team

arriving at the office he signed in at exactly 8:15am
      exactly every day

the rescue crew transmuted sweat into tears

the cars along the riverbank refused to be turned away

each tree stood firm
      buried up to their waists in sand

muttering to itself the beast fell apart &
      into the future

there was a fragment of stone falling through time
     untouching what can be seen
     unbecoming what will be

with his last breath the monster grew skyscrapers from its eyes

HR made a solemn vow 
they would post the replacement job application on the web
      before their tears could dry

Packed in

pink, it said, like plastic bags that flatten out and
become the deceased bodies of the street, windblown
later into alleyways where they become body bags
for plastic bottles, liquor burning on the inside,
liquor burning the throat. fuck, it spit, loosing on the
brick wall a steady stream of teeth, corroding
the pockmarked edifice with syrupy, rose bile.
life, it spoke, the dark sky, drowsy, sinking to rest
upon the broken ground, the street light ebbing away,
taking with it a fleeting blush of red, hanging on the
final odor of night, pink and packed to bursting,
spewing life at the foot of the blank windows
forced to follow the path of the concrete-lined world

Thursday, March 1, 2018

Further study required

in the wake of forwarded emails
the monitors rose like plastic crosses
each groan of ascension was an echo
a stalled car catching below my window
dyed concrete in the parking lot
the little blue dots unhinged
moved through location space
they had found the white lined way
to predict their destination
they flattened out to become an umbilical cord
a line defined by beginning and end
untethered to skullfaced sockets
there would be no mortality
organic life would begin with cybernetic eyes
glimpsed through application of screen to body
body to settings settings to soul

Monday, February 26, 2018

Your Winnipeg

peg is in Man
itoba i keep sayin
in my
head Saskat
chewan for some
reason that probably
has something
to do
with an idea
that the
whole landscape is a
once technicolor
tundra from
which out of
the snowy fog Guy
din skates bringing
black and white
snow flakes
along with him
they spill from out
of his fingers
as he tries
to wring the
life from them
and like a mountain
fails to live

Saturday, February 24, 2018

i wear a hat outside when it's clear

you write poems about rain
like it's always raining;

i want to live in the rain but
it is always too wet;

at some point you seek shelter
to warm your drenched skin
but you only catch a chill;

i want the sun to watch the rain
the clouds look too somber;

i can only tell it's raining
by watching the pond boil;

i take my hat off and stare into the sky
the rain is invisible until it covers my face

the car like metal sinks in mud; the pond is a coffin for rain

now, as the oil pulls the engine down,
I cannot bring it with me;
                                          through the fog
comes many other places

a green, shallow reflective pond
shows the sky
                       the color is wrong
the fog has made the sky gray
the pond has made the fog green

the engine is black with tar
                                            I cannot bring myself
to take another step to cross the bridge
each moment obscures the surface
                                                        the fog disburses
there is no green

only scattered trash
                                faded soda cans
the deathless deep brown of mud

the dirt

from below, buried beneath the earth,
my life seems to spread out and move slowly,
it seems to last a thousands years,
touch many points of light,
i watch as the faces of small yellow flowers,
the worms move through me and ground my eyes to dust,
i am unable to make any lasting change,
there are so many missing pieces,
things that do not make sense,
when the wind blows i can see up into the sky,
i stare at the clouds and wonder if they will ever die.

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

147 Twinkle

typing in strange, exotic places,
I have yet to discover the algorithm,
a destiny in digital immortality,
tho the white page of death has blinked many times
and pulled from me pieces of ancient signs,
arranged in blue-lined characters,
exhumed from burials along fiber-optic lay lines.

Monday, February 12, 2018


we can not discern the meaning;
standing in the rain outside your window
doing this to myself
soaking my clothes
not wanting to go home
hoping you wouldn't come downstairs
looking for reconciliation
misunderstanding loss
like in some movie decaying on old film
could it have been ten years ago and more?
I have done the impossible thing; I have moved on


conch shell thunder in my ear
hanging from a headphone wire
the empty soundless waves
the coiled marks in the sand
voices rushing up against my eyes
the blackness that comes with setting sun
a constant mirage of images
hollow thoughts refusing a response
isolation against the static storm.

Thursday, February 1, 2018


Blue seashells over my eyes I call them coins
          leave them under the gravestones
that like the old man's teeth
                                             rot in long lines lisping
out old vague drunken songs I don't wish to recall
          whatever words were written in our past
I am not connected to the tears that are escaping
           from these shells
                                       I want to become the ridges
become the gradients of color on the outside
I no longer wish to pay for living with my sight