Saturday, October 25, 2014

Am I the Only Semaphore

Grasp the beak and show
your cards. Threads of
system hatch. I squeak
approval.


One of us is roan,
the other, safe.
I live between
the icicles and harsh


leaves. No one rakes
the dross, few
sample smoke.
We speak across


the barbecue. What town
is this? Are we
a neighborhood?
A lifetime come to seed.

Friday, September 12, 2014

Post Hoc

The only one with
sense of humor worth
recruiting and retaining
takes such heavy
doses of prescription pellets
her reality needs 
a crane to get some places
she saves up gumption
at the point of feeling revved enough
she calls and says
her former husband her supplier
lives on instinct and peculiarity
she hears him dither 
disembark and drain the neighbors
while she majors in 
divinity of outliers 
who claim they pray

Empathy

He followed her
lockstep
stilettos

Toothpick legs
beneath good
night

A small mis-
shapen
conversation

went like this
who are you
talking to

that statue
out of bounds
whose cold caffeine

Hyp Not Ic

If some
thing happens
leave me
out of it

Narration equals
threads going
every which
direction

I prefer
a quiet house
the air programmed
to go on
off again

So I am
thoughtless can repeat
this even
sing sometimes

Qua Si

Everything sounded alikely exclusive
things only
counted when you met
code

(One is apt
to fluster
amid aptitude)

Little bells collapse
popular silence

Perturbable sleep
coats reputation
of this city
with a warp of dowd

Now and again
words postulate
seasonal abscess

Sunday, September 7, 2014

Strain

Anonymity infects
the braid of dulcet
feuding and removal
from a sentence,


from a cul-de-sac, a sense
of humor, the pacific
with a surface team
you have to like,


just as the celebrant
agrees to speak,
the congregations (plural)
a mere field test of success.

Ear(n)

A bubble completes what
it absorbs, and thus
a history trines
observation and desire.


A vessel captions the whole
science of experience
in footage we pretend
guides us to our destiny.


As a pen pal, you have been
attuned as much
as marvelous, by which I mean
my life is more robust than


even flute performance.
Money tips on the side of knowing,
not accumulation, although
one must consume both liquid and crumbs.

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

As a Matter of Routine I Often Do Not

My habit is to have erased you before
blushing not only to myself.

To love you inconveniences musterable bravado,
unaccustomed as I am to having a defense budget.

Mourning turns away from ritual because of rasping.
The furniture belongs here where you planted it.

She tends to skin. She limbers toward antagony
from which offspring rise unencumbered.

Make me a million that I cannot form from scratch.
Allow me to introduce intentions I have learned.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Whose Idea Was this Friendship

I don't remember being cajoled into an intimate connection. Rather, there was incremental paring that removed some of the edges that defined a personality I no longer recollect. The downtime that I used to relish lifted off. Now I hear my voice thin in a middle distance between heart and Rolls Royce parked out front. The lambent oligarch of sentiments, enlisted in the annals of decision solitude. I want to worth; I want to navigate the constancy. I want to camisole my way into a chosen drudgery that pays instead of smiles at my devotion. Any viable injunction ought to have been paid out of the general fund, not siphoned from my feathers often ruffled, tidy as they often are. The learned journals of my posse venerate what for each one of us bled more than a single time.Constituencies break into obedience. Do you read me? Patchwork wilts. The name of a store at the bottom of the road. Once. When there were minor features to discuss. When I would sled home. When there was lumber in the fireplace and thick snow upon the shingled roof. Present tense, my germ, my lambkin.

Monday, May 26, 2014

The Minister, the Jugular, and Faith

He has been slamming voice into a microphone
for twenty-seven minutes,
and the children have begun to wriggle
out of earshot, transported by their parents


into vestibules and out onto the street,
where streams of traffic cauterize
the silence chafed by astrological routine.
The very subject of his preaching,


a potential loss of power,
the many flowers along the median,
against the sidewalks, and in tandem
with other parallels.


One learns to genuflect, only to continue
rituals like this, slanted toward
subservience, that power
that feeds oncoming and increasing power.

She Takes to Her Bed

He remains a modest man with wit.
He window shops relationships.
Not one inch of glass has seemed
transparent. Only the darkened image


of a self left following
her relentless twitching
away from bedtime and beds
in general. He drives a hearty


vehicle into dark alleys,
where signage enumerates
the ordinances broken
by merely sitting still.


He taps messages into
the cloud, he retrieves
a tapping all his own,
and resurrects a noun, a verb.

That Was Not What I Meant

I affirmed his genius, only I forgot
he would display ineptness with the comment.


To date, he has reported it on blogs, on podcasts,
texted it, called friends relentlessly announcing.


There is nothing for me now but to enter
the monastic life, to channel deities.


Never will I feel at ease in public,
pronouncing words that should not cohabit sentences.


Faith exists to be dismantled, later taken up
selectively and solo, where a calmer life begins.

Sunday, May 25, 2014

All My Nightshirts Are the Ones You Bought for Me

I have swum laps across the desert.
Now I leave the evidence away.


At midnight, I have sugared something in the house.
I lie awake remembering what is not sweet.


The person closest to my psyche introduced hell
as my destination after saying it did not exist.


"Okay, so sell me the bridge; we'll worry about
contracts after the fact when I feel interested."


When we sleep, we sleep with selves who know our breathing.
No need to measure, for it loves and leaves itself.

Saturday, April 26, 2014

A Frayed Timeframe

Nocturnal obvious fringe birds
line the gaps in hearing,
while I read a narrator
I lean to enjoy.


Which of us sparks
unfettered fire? The word
"inadvertent" simulates
another word that I forget.


I have forgotten innuendo,
a word my mother used to
chalk. We offered her so many
opportunities, op cit


in primacy-recency conversations
disguised as dialogic,
we norm our way to
peace time(s) three and linger.

Condonation


He performs what he
performed and will
perform. And shows me
variations on


the theme to be
his legacy. I recognize
the hiss of disappointment
when the instruments

malfunction. Malfeasance,
though, remains
unlikely. The instruments
remain unwieldy. The hands

employing what
keys do, defer to keys
and channeled breath
to lubricate and fabricate true north.

Friday, April 25, 2014

Quaint Curio


She talks about her latest
project, as though
I might aspire
to same or similar,


as though informing
a young facsimile
of self what heights are
possible, if not likely.


I fail to glaze over
during this recital.
I lavish sweet perfume
of my mentality


concerning a CV as plush
as a new feather bed
on which I lie, repeating
what will not be rinsed away.

Sense

Having curtailed more than
you have contributed, I feed
and clothe the spirit
that I know is there,


somewhere in the vicinity
of breath I feel released
close to the infestation
of foreign and near


objects, substances, routines,
shuttled from your assumed
world weariness to my
certain practiced innocence,


as though swathed
in novelty accompanying
birth, beyond, yet sinking
into terra firma and its plates.

Saturday, April 19, 2014

I could incinerate new melody from this side
of your bed, having erased the catapult
from recidivist experiment
of a prescribed recovery

No verbs do due diligence,
we carve what we have craved all night
toward de minimis detraction
as the repertoire pretends

a revolution as the prophet wore it out
while dappled from a lake
called retribution. I see the feather
dried now fall, a feathery

precipitation scalded now re-framing
warm sky bowled up over our
young hearts. Shrapnel packed down
into some tin thing heartily in brackets.
Came upon, and a synthetic origin just then
perpetuated one question after
the next question. I was finished until
yolk yellow of the marginal sun

brought home light. I was your unexpected
dust made whole again,
and you did not know my name.
I preferred the bass tones,

almost rigidity that brought them,
the one you dance with, to, upon
with some refractive smile that enters
back stage without primping.

Do you time arrival of the husk
he calls voice tone before learning
worship thin then constant and
replenishing as much as cradled mood?
Only the lyrics break my heart.
He takes the brace light out of the gut strings,
comes back again.
The vault of method acting closes shop.

The vault of method acting creases my indifference.
I recollect the single fleck of snow.
What time of daylight does subtraction
overtake the blood moon.

Anymore, monastic theory breaks in
to sweep the hearing instruments
from floor-length dresses.
All of us wear floor-length dresses evermore.

Open mouthed insignia weather the Catskills.
I want to down time to return
to a clandestine length of peace
The rapport with stray life forms and woods.

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Coolmarm

Tickler file flinked open 
revokes an equal
opportunity once
possible statistically,


now close to demi-glace
wedged between karma
and the premise
of a degustation.


Parameters invoke
the only builder of
small homes, who cheats
singular and plural


just the same as he would
brevity and starch
against the texture
of a learned skin.




Mezzo

Irises on mezzanine
convey / repay / defray
the lyric opus fraction,
of olfactory
 
white spring, long


torrent of refraction,
while the lambent winds
street side climb


upward to a vintage
crease enduring limbo
streams and stalls
with blessings of new fact.


The tide comes in
meanwhile, already
worked up into blue
routine disguised as innovation.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Jambisco

Port keen wary of the -amsel in dis ropia
Tort for maturation at your ration sir loin
Park lean port scene river dose canary full of
Leeway fur lined nova sorghum sittin' in a tree



And you thought gondola was mainframe
go ahead and ponder yonder in the sweet lane
where we nurk our way to bravo dome
and virtue stents are recent see


Elderberry innocence is like your snow
and I'm impeccable as slow-go venison
You work to lay-by strenuous veneer
that we may dimestore to the lollygag


of shopped windows to sleet
Come slither through the dappled rain with me
to wit each thunder keening for the royal
we love empathy we emblem to defeat our lust and brevity