Why rage
at tide. And hope
for still water.
Having grown
smaller than the soul of
a mayfly.
That tickles
our skin and
creates
internal steam
The Color Blue
It disturbs me
The me
The me reminded
Of bodies in snow
That winter
When I wandered
Too far
From home
The me
The me with a lantern
Casting counterfeit light
On woods
Where soulbane trees
Shudder
Where birds
Are stone in their nests
The me
The me wearing
One heavy moment
And another
The me
The me stepping over
Brittle faces
In a moment
Disconnected
All at Once
Why storm
into tide. And hope
for stillwater. Having grown
smaller than the soul of
a mayfly. Its tickling
of our skin and
a generating
of internal steam.
today
a crowd of fools can’t
stop laughing. they elect
to be fools. though
enter our perception without
permission. that they
laugh instead of
sigh. though assault us with
the clicking
of painted fingernails.
and laugh
and click and lacking
purpose other than
to have something to
do. showing us
rude pictures that
propel us into
a restless sleep.
and cough
into their elbows instead
of saying excuse me.
History of Mood
Does he have a face memorized
without the wanting of memorization? Is that
an argument in our ears? On a day more than
a day, reached with finality. His fingers
are molten,
we’re the bastard children of ghosts.
His words, you say the strangest things. Collapse
on us. Or us on him. Or everyone in a state of
sideways slant. By that time as events rapidly
evolve. At that moment when
we wear clay gowns and wade in a glass
pond, anxious to drown.
fine
us fine.
always fine.
immerse in smiles.
fine smiles.
immerse in
fine music,
waltz us finely through
fine days. across
fine halls.
fine rhythm,
fine dance,
fine us forget
fine smoke in
fine air.
fine us forget
fine children
running finely
into the heart of fine
fire.
us throw them
fine kisses,
fine children wave us
from fine flames.
fine in a state of
forever fine.
fine them.
fine us.
just fine.
clearly unseen
stare through
cracks
in the glass and
what in hell
went wrong
with the
history that
promised us
peaceful gatherings
under courtyard
trees where
we rest
in sad chairs
against the garden
wall compose
love notes
to absent
ancestors drink rum
surrounded by
thistles whisper
in candlelight
The Magic of Departed Saints
New explosions when the old ones still hang on church spires,
use us up to the eyes and ears. So we ignore. So we go and pray
in a grotto. After forgetting about lunch and then dinner. After
trading stories with the wind and learning its secret message
about death. Say and resay: this is a how you humans can find rest.
As we go belly-deep in a strangled forest, remember firestorms
seen in a lion’s eye. Follow the footprints of daughters not born,
never were or would be. Our breath fails. Our exquisite parts shake
loose, lost to the idea of being lost. As we set a fine table by the
monarch’s tomb and evening sky reveals its true face. We put all
our trust in the lightning that decorates our cheeks with chiaroscuro.
It puts our smiles are out of shape as we pretend at being boats in
a windless harbor.
the feast in eden
saints in the shadows
send them a kiss
my face on backwards
blue cemetery light
wide open
accept january breeze
before this place
before this time
somewhere else
someone else
Night Before Night of End
Not same; but are in meaning and
not meaning
and yellow hands and
penny-a-pocket, What? Or is it?
Or the tradition of analytic swans, their
spread of hollow calm.
Yes we are run. And come in
pursuit of frail concerns.
Our ears are wrapped
in gauze, alongside the pool,
frailed. Before
Jahweh’s exultation, lungs
peeled. Seem to be seen
as a struggle with
pulse before shut off the lamps
and wish for flame.
In spite of. At the bottom
of the world, supine
on beds of dire herbs.
Crazy-headed by the fountain
of slow-quick.