Wednesday, May 2, 2018

the intake is exhaust

cat leaves a lasting impression on 
windowsill. the wind steals into 
the room through the screen. not
enough to cool my sweat. the motion
of the cars outside is static. an accident
leaves a man groaning on the sidewalk.
a woman asks did you see?
                                            I thought
it was a bumper, he looked plastic. he
was dying. if I'd seen it move then maybe.
a body leaves an impression in the 
grass. cars continue crunching fragments
of glass. the impression is his last
breath. the intake is exhaust.

Sunday, April 1, 2018

Make trout fishing in america, America again

Casting light into pool
          Pulling the sun along
A statue crouching against rock
          Tied to the river's surface by line
Dividing the water into morning
Threading of fish reflection
          Through stone
The current is the opposite of time
           It does not move in any direction

Friday, March 30, 2018

a shirt we could not afford

we didn't read our fortunes
     because the tiles were supernaturally
we pressed the cookie against our teeth
     waiting for a phone to
we soaked the paper with our pen
     forwarding the bones to the mortgage
we rested the morsels against our tongues
     hoping they would dry before the first
we would not hear about the future
     in which we would come to
we wrapped the blood from the feast
     in the shirts we could not
we did not believe in words
     we questioned what they would mean to

Wednesday, March 28, 2018

into the life

the cancerous edge of the knife
fillets the animal form. life
is the fleeting beauty of the
butterfly. the blood coagulates
in the crevice drawing the body

             the wings are the
limited reality of flesh
and the life which has been
               to the mouth
pulling out all there is
pink rain drops on a
mirror. you must drip
and swallow. you must
chew and spit.
place into the warm pool
your nightmares. plunge
heart and paint the soul
red. to purify the blade
one must trade the life.

Monday, March 26, 2018


my mother's bedroom began with one stuffed bear
in the afternoon through thick curtains the sun shines
a pale peach light on them illuminating a calm layer of dust

there are several shelves of bears
recently they have begun to sink and recline on the floor
at night they sit still eyes transfixed
to glow faintly in the haze of suburban street lamps

these bears are my mother's heart overflowing
I can see my father in them my sister my brother
myself I see 30 years of children 20 years in the same home
I see the life of great pets now gone

in the morning my mother wakes early
she looks upon her own love
the bears stare back with sorrowful glassy eyes
filled with adoration and love

Friday, March 23, 2018

they were separated forever

she followed the tiles at 45 degree angles. staying
in between the lines. her feet were kept from the cool
linoleum by the soles of her shoes. she was walking
toward her. she moved at a steady pace.
                                                                     from her
viewpoint down the hall it was like she wasn't moving.
if she squinted she could almost see the static figure
straddling the tile lines. they were forever distant from
one another. she was standing still watching her move.
she was moving forward within the lines inching
toward her. they would never meet.
                                                             the tiles sent silent
screams out under the pressure. they were cut into perfect
squares. the lines moved like hard lace across the face.
they were separated forever. they would never meet.
looking up they waited for the soles of her feet. she was
walking forward over them. they would never meet.
yet they braced themselves waiting for the impact.
was it possible she could stand do still. she straddling the
lines. the tiles held her in place. she was moving toward
her. the soles of their feet would never meet. they moved
at a steady pace. the tiles watched from below. her body
would not move. the tiles creaked under her steps. she
followed the tiles at 45 degree angles. along the hall
she walked toward her silhouette. staying in between the

Monday, March 19, 2018

two chapters

two chapters on an open page working their way away from each other

diverging into two threads the story goes in its own directions

from this point the sun looks back and forth over the word
                                                             fading imperceptibly the pages

          the future is left out to disappear

          the past is left over to vanish

from a distance the chapters unfurl as a single long page

the letters make thin unbroken lines like marching ants
                                                             their hills covered by overturned covers

the mystery unresolved is the title read backwards in gold

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.

Saturday, March 10, 2018


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

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

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

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.