wednesday

slow day, the drops on the wall
so cyclical - and Aristotle once
behind the backs of them all
predetermined the fall
in our heads and our halls
though irate so they seem
some still protest the dream
apparatus in hand
convert proxies to sand
incandescent horizon
of our ozone depletion
scraped the dead off my skin
in the vain of accretion
the post modern of talent
wreaking darkened finesse
colour blind isolation
forgets our loneliness

not that it matters

a stork brought me
two doors down, they found their daughter in a cabbage patch
mr. Swenson was bought in a store
and Lilly’s parents refuse to share how she came to be

still we are all headed down the same hollow tunnel
(some running) until we see the light
in the darkness we freely love and hate
since there is no need to follow through
they’re but emotions anyway

the mind parallels the universe in it’s expanse
flowing sap through modern social veins
the only difference we can make
won’t be noticeable until it’s null

why not

an old zebra
her dim aged stripes
she stands looking politely rustic
inside an indoor field
what once flowed slithers
and everyone is yelling
she’ll break her own legs in a week

hendrix, morrison and all those dead at 27

with the passing of the age of aries
comes a longing for the unknown
we looked for it at the arcade
we looked for it behind the computer screen
in your pants pockets and in your pants
we looked for it on the pavement
between the cracks
and even that awkward
dark
overgrown shimmy below the cabin
now we hope we haven’t missed it
and this is not something to procrastinate
but I think I will find it tomorrow

a poem

this (like every other poem)
is just as useful
as words on a page

sunset on a centaur

Now although no one knows why he let the bullet float past his temple, I like to think that I understood. We were crowded in the same off-white afternoon-orange room, breathing deep the dust that misted around us and made the sun tangible
when he looked at me all distant and asked;
“Would you please pass me the pistol?”
First, as though it were just the word for itself, he played with it. He ran his fingers down the barrel, clicked his teeth on the tip, and even smelled it to see if it showed signs of use.
Then, with the smallest most meaningful smile (as though playfully) he aligned the end with his ear.
His fingers quivered,
then fired.
Those who were not paralyzed with awe recoiled. Some faces were crying while others went ajar to release acoustic emotion. Mine was blank while his was still smiling.

There was no inquiry, no autopsy, no mystery; he had been talking about it for years. Just the smirk on his face, that he aimed away from in vanity.

msg (a modern sonnet)

walled in by all these shiny shiny words
then told to breath this circulated air
she drew a line to run along the hordes
a solitude beyond what one can bear

we’d meet on full moons every second fall
and think of it meanwhile in between
my cells regenerated at a crawl
after they had been stolen from my twin

once waiting at the perch (three buildings high)
my blue veins dropped as they untied adieu
a serpentine display came tumbling nigh
they criss crossed in descent towards askew

what ends may never cause a single pass
though I may find the body in the grass

february 29

it all feels mystical
going out howling at the moon
my cry is like no other
just like everyone else’s
this, the longest month
of moonless skies
deserves a lavish ceremony
with recession resources
ignite
etch my name on my hand
etch my name in the ground

a profane memento

we stand crowded in a room of smoke
inhaling when no one looks
my alveoli tingle and are sustained
until you blink again
a rush through my veins
that reminds me
of the days when I fed myself
only to have something to throw up

I remember you cheating once
you were looking me right in the eyes
as wisps of it streamed into
your throat and nose
then out the pores of your skin

we all get caught but you wanted to
I didn’t look down because I was afraid
to see a smile