Somewhat-polished poetry and stuff from an older era.
2009
last poem of november
November 27, 2009 12:00AM
“baby don’t look down, death is on the ground….”
– mr. sister
sawdust and ribbons,
skies lap winnowed gaps along these
dropped fruits, clacking rasps of
ill-burrowed winds.
kicking against the leaves,
she knows this is the last poem of
november. creaking boards of floors,
cracked and frosted glass,
holes breathing night along rivets
worn.
cats keep begging in rhythms
still drunk with summer,
bare limbs croon the songs of
shadows jangled.
sawdust and ribbons, she feeds the
flames and stacks the bottled fruits.
stertorous winds ink grooves against the
rising nights. frosts
fester,
somewhere here,
(she points)
and lights more matches as the evening
dims.
stars of dust
November 20, 2009 12:00AM
sucking down the cherry
dust of stars
all bathed in bubbled phosphor
silk
leering thin against
glass pandemic with desire,
unstrung.
drought peels away the layers,
blue of tooth and
a-minor-keyed….
kissing floorboards on a
friday night.
wanting to want things,
a dream eats us.
hello robots
October 22, 2009 12:00AM
the Red Line is raking rubber as the brakes pander and squeal to the curve
between Central Square and Harvard Square. driver train-guider is ravaging
the track. i sit swaying towards the rear of the second car where the light
is dim and the air is bending inward and everything is emanating wrongness.
in spades. hollow-shell air full of grit and wrenches.
those figures, the hollowed underbelly eyes. blobs attached to purses,
bags, scotched hair. i worm through this space. i sway. down shallow
hallways, across pebbled-grey carpets, granules and seams, caricatures of
a hundred thousand days before.
swollen drivel at the night’s end, lobbed momentum curling forward.
hello robots. robot fans, search-engine lovers.
the space towards the rear of the second car is bending, bloody-grey, and
full of rubber and glue and stillborn ads. no glass smashing, no sparkle,
no landing.
one more day and mr. sister, beat circus, blood warrior, vacation, bliss.
scene
October 13, 2009 12:00AM
on your day i spangled the square in
jasmine and lavender plumes and
melted light all glittered-up and
swimming ‘round the bubbling lamps and
webbed and clacking trees breathing
sparkles and glowing-faery exhalations and
we dance
along the benches, down the
red-brick cobbled aisles and
curves and confetti-flower rain
flutters all purple-white and languorous and
your eyes tingle upwards from that veil and…..
bells and dusk and melted faery light.
scene and
sharp november–
i sweep your stones.
shuffle your leaves.
kneel with creaks.
know how this
goes.
cliche.
grandfather
October 7, 2009 12:00AM
patched-cotton grandfather
hovering grey in a corner
mosaic–in a window, in a chair-rocking
mural breathing fierce-bandied
whistling gristle of
smoke of chainsaw trains and
shredded autumn and
FUCK
HIM
with his bite, with his
burrow, with the tunnels and the stark
limbs, those furrows worming,
bitten ghosts edged in
her eyes.
bitten grandfather ghost,
you will not take this autumn.
you will not
smother
in these leaves
you will flame on the edge of summer
a moldering pantomime of sickly seasons,
a seasoned clown locked in a swindled
end.
rain-sacked
October 3, 2009 12:00AM
the crows natter and
croon to spangled
splatter and
splat and the
mish-mash tangle of
tree-soaked
rain.
been drinking since noon and
thirty and meditating on the art of being
broken
in all conjugations and conjoined
verbs.
mercurial and
bludgeoned, i talk in spandrels,
lofted and unhinged, a
spluttering
nonsense gruel.
noon to nouns to
invisible rainbows, and i thought i
heard a word as i walked away
but i cannot be so sure.
the crows give way to
crickets, sauntering and
nonplussed. i give them leave and look
for a liquor bruised.
(i thought i heard a word, but now i cannot
be so sure.)
before the snows,
i wonder if it’s time to
move on.
white october
September 25, 2009 12:00AM
suddenly a white sheet and
scars and
blood pours up from this
unbroken bed, being
born in deep deep
white
October.
milk-shroud-cotton screams,
agony and plucked loops,
where but under
wombs do we un-breath our
selves,
softened in murk,
peddled in sands like
glass like
screaming.
don’t know this riddle, don’t
know her face above my
shriveled skin. luminous and
lost, white without light,
being born in lost October,
being born in brambles and
wet grass.
somewhere there is that
sandstorm and i lay planted
thin and full of gristle and grit and
song-dust gruel and
what will be left of the riddle but
un-born love.
Flat
July 3, 2009 12:00AM
Current mood: denver broncos uk
Looking for a word,
a thought,
a shape to eat the sky, a
syllable string
to turn this all
inside-out.
Vessel of pain.
Granules.
Spectacle fired thin.
Glass-blowing bruise.
Begin again, be
born in straight waves,
threaded through 10,000 needles
thrumming sharps.
Flat space
sanded landed
graised strips.
Sorrow burrows.
The earth comes loose in waves.
A dear god please make this disappear.
gnawing
June 26, 2009 12:00AM
gnawing away at the pillows,
thoughts spluttered skyward,
left-then-right-then
skyward….
taunting sleep.
people and half-seen-half-spoken
phantoms.
lovely festering specters,
pillow-gruel and punch, the
grit of the day splashes down and
bad-bad-bad
i’m pouring whiskey into a wine glass on the
border of 12 a.m thursday-friday.
a filmstrip keeps peeling away at these lids,
half-unseen and haunting, of the
every-day mire, of the
bliss, of the bramble, the
sediments of regret.
blah to the power, there is no
regret, just puddles speaking in
ripples and riddles whispering
foreign
garbled
tongues.
juice
April 26, 2009 12:00AM
warmth sploshes up as percussion and
all-a-tingle–
ripe–
we roll out from our lopped cages and
unfold
all juicy, bitten, liquid and
a-splurging
lurid tumbling circus,
frisbees, cleavage,
somersaults, open toes, looped skirts, the
shirtless, the
strings, the
muscled wellspring of bicycles
interleaving and the
curves bathing, skating, loping and
splashing, laughing and
langourous all tucked-up, knit-tight
along the banks of the Charles.
spring, this juice, this un-rolled spindle, un-folded and
a-singular
pooled monkey-buttered-joy under this sun, this huge
group cartweel,
balloons and yellow
upswells. and yes
sex, sex, sex.
everywhere the blooming of sex, the
premonitions of dropped clothing,
the peacock-wagging-waddling
parade of flashing dancing glances,
awkward gestures,
islands of cuddled love,
wayward eyes, posturing and
shy and
breathing simmering
sex.
so dipped, so thrown down–
we grease this downward slither, we
slake and shudder under these fountains,
under these blowing arcing limbs,
(green pearlescent dreams) and
wherever,
whenever
milk-milk-milk this fruit
until it’s
dry.