Thread--Javelin's been thrown thru
& discrete flecks of blood
fall to impacts of meteor (ite)
& nuclear plume.
will someday forgive that.
on a list of to do's A O K
going to float that canoe
down that creek
and what glorious furs
will be hacked
& hewn from
the cubs you produce.
covered all over in garb of yr
and easy to sneak around in
the dark, black tar put
when owls fluff up
a thick plume.
Javelin's been shoved completely thru
and it missed my lungs and my brain
consumes oxygen well enough to
breathing through my nose
like so. automoton in swanky clothes
mink coat with fake eyeballs glued
onto where the edges of scalps
are sewn together. swaddling
Goddess, God issensitive fingertips
on what is or isn't
solid or solidified yet...
gasping for air
at the forest's edge
and, relieved, we are saved from such a
into the cloud cover reflected on the river bed.
we can only look up from below
and see the inversion of what truth
we may know
or think, or write with our
in the lonely snow.
even signposts must be dug a hole.
fire glows in the cold
for fuel it consumes the air the wind blows
and the pure reflection folds and ripples
until the moon lays low on the puddles
at our ankles sensitive toes
frozen it see
Popular Music.Why take the cranium's thrum
unless the pelvic baseline
is withdrawn into an aural
—already it strokes off dusty
bunny fuckers & hardline
fun dumb mentals
with erudite messianics
to sophist jehovah—
—already it beguiles the easy listener
sitting, waiting, wishing
on airplanes in the night sky, not shooting stars
and the second amendment's grizzly
oh my country 'tis of thee,
hard red member underneath
worn white blue jeans!
land on my father's pride
like an airstrip bandaid
to stop the leak of sperm banks,
bailouts for the global drought
make it rain on africa
platinum patois erect the gleaming
statutes of salutes to police state
child soldier solidarity marches
Echo Log, 2the sun is giving it to the thicket
of magnolia leaves, giving the bustling
shimmer the wind exists in.
closer look, and see (o, shock!)
the glistening beetles, from the pines,
filling each white bloom to the brim.
they mate like statues. surrounded by petals
the pairs pause in the buzzing throng,
males look out and above, perhaps even see
you, with your pair of lopers rusted open
in your glove. Oh, you have tended
in this light, my boy, a verdant garden
in me, and inside my gates you have plowed
into my soils and out rise gasping herbs,
sweet, soft rosemary and closing basil leaves;
and in the foothills of the full moon
you search my swaying flock of downy sheep
for the sulking wolf. purple blood
is under the marble, but who carved David
and did not see you at the cusp
of this realization? some fire that forged
the steel crescents above the crux
of your frozen joints will take away
the leaves that prove Zephyr
in heaven's light, and a concrete
statue garden is poured in wooden frames.
Echo Log, 1winter came to my door while I lounged
on the leather couch. I opened up
strongly to his pretty complexion
and cocoon of down lining; his white
teeth didn't chatter and no flush had
covered up the freckles on his cheeks.
I had been taking in boys like him
for weeks. he said he heard about it,
the good news I had now in the back
of the manger, and requested rest
in a spare bed. his eyes were still gold
like dew on a late harvest, sweet fields
that his eyes too looked tired from reaping.
my own place, my own food, i thank past
loves and passions. winter plays his finger
on his lip and compliments my art
I've painted onto the wall, frescos
of Mnemosyne's sons glorified
anonymous to winter's conscience,
or at least his hymnal whispering,
which adorns each word he lofts to me
and my ears cozy from easy sleep.
the trees then glinted with frozen limbs
and clicked a procession to my hand
that dusted snow off winter's shoulder
and led him in, where the warm
philo.it is good to be afraid
it is good to be weak
it is good to be human
if that is what you are
because if you fear nothing
and if you are strong
and you think you are human,
you are wrong.
time spent convincing the world
that you are bigger than the star it revolves
brings laughter to its molten core.
sit down, and take a moment
to thank the chair beneath you.
or if you already sit,
realize that it is not on a throne.
even the air could crush you if it felt inclined
to do so.
no, our ability lies
in accepting that we can do nothing.
nothing you can do will change that.
all the chosen ones you've heard of and thought,
for a moment,
"I could be like them,"
are asleep beneath soil or text on a page,
and those still alive have headstones for headboards.
give up the exasperating ruse,
the fantasy you've cultivated like a secret garden.
these things are the choking vines to you.
we only construct graves, that is cause to be afraid.
our only strengths will serve to weaken our gains.
leash.I am a homosexual with three pet dogs.
One came home with my mom from work;
the front leg already broken and amputated.
A mystery shih-tzu, large for her breed,
now hops through my house many years later
arthritis, cataracts, and rotten teeth.
She may never die, may she never die;
her crooked spine and visible ribs
may make her whine and snore,
but every guest loves her novelty.
The next is mine, a beagle from
a large puppy mill, who did not know
grass, ceiling fans, or people.
She craves love almost as much as food.
Spayed too soon she filled out fatter
than her hips could always move.
She cannot jump into my high bed.
She is soft and my hands will pet at her
as she trembles to lick my skin.
She is patient and kind, but steals
socks and the other dogs' food;
What favorites for good behavior often do.
The last followed me home on a sweaty summer hike.
Her breed was unknown, exotic and new to me
with shining black fur and golden eyes blinking.
I closed my front door on her that d
Dirt Clods.We work together at laughter;
and she takes a moment in shame
either hand covered in grassroots and dirt clods.
He puffs up to push the mower
but deflates at the sight of his half shaven
Covered in sweat the disappointed face
mother doesn't say she doesn't feel
any love in anything.
Someone must explain
why humans try to convince other humans
that they are not human;
that either they make no human mistakes
or that others are lesser for human ways.
I deeply wish it is not me.
I still cannot face my own weaknesses
or whittle down to solid strengths
in my potting soil soul. I've grown
choking vines to feel full with root coils.
I've appeared to others in limited viewings
but some suns are too bright and I've never seen anything.
I won't help her up, they'll hear if I'm silent,
birth me from blow up dolls, chins pulsing up
with every plowing pump in the shuttering moonlight.
recharge, for awhile, replace batteries
shave away shadows at five o'clock
neon is open til midnight.
dreamt.i dreamt of wind temperate
and his pillow chest
my lower neck the picnic on the
hill of verdant grass thickets.
i dreamt of him brushing my face
with soil on his fingertips.
we are the earth. the dew of the morning
is baptism. clean for at least a moment.
his legs around my waist. stopper on
the bottle of dandelion wine.
i dreamt i was running,
running down the trees.
my eyes were on him in river rocks.
my lower neck stiff in wrinkled sheets.