firefighter

light the cigarette,
the slang of old age of
destiny played
blues wormwood, surreal
mossy rock the musical measure
evokes
morphology:
a Christan mystic [man] drinking
wine
-rusty-
from the bottle raw
and the
baritone horn in Spanish
blackens even a grackle wing:
our tongue[s] (can't you feel it) damn it)
wails the night away
corrodes softly the
devastation of dark
water-
tea at the ocean shore
simple: a man,
a wish
and one story he
can tell twice and
be sure its not really a lie.

the number increases ; the hollow year

pillars formed of platelets
stacked they rise, from
their own porch of hunger,
my hunger
though
comes from the hunger for fields for
the shadow of fields
the lost imprint
of the oldest farmer
i feel that resonance in
wine
the short hand of drugs
drown
then in such long days
suffused with articulated being
sharp at the dendrite, and mean
coalesced greedy the mind
is decanted in to
an unbending mineral
snapped at the nose, metallic
a hint of almond arsenic
a poison of days and memories
of words trickling and luminous
waiting for the plate of lamp black
to cob web a formal hand
ordering till and mule through
mans morning murk and glory.

movethebinder

first there is a smile
the
morning laughs
out leptons
and
these
z
particles
love in our
human language,
a
girl
expressing love
by way of
calculus, and truly
by conversion- poetry
why not write
poems
about
poetry
who reads,
these
blue
walls
who prays in church
the believers
the lovers
and the nearly dead,
and those peculiar
high energy physicists
slipping ever closer to
their white light
singularity.

translate_2

in the end the distance was too close,
which of the two selected,
how their days have terminated
removed from the
point of conception, as
if from Canada split
the arctic hoist and
now downward,
you tighten
yourselves to it,
in order to yellow a just position
in addition
to having traveled the clean ice fields
its secrets are late,
forever outside the edge of cold,
they pull themselves from these
deep immersions to
immediately find
the time of the swallows a
plentiful taxonomy to examine
(down to my fingers)
frozen by the road
of the nameless town
a woman on a fruit crate rusts our will
welcoming the harbingers from feather/spring as if
snowdrops, and crocuses
could issue along
the road of winter
or within the farm of the mystic

invincibility_code

sex has ended for me
the terrific blood spilled -
and paused
asunder the packed soul
weeps without weeping
and slips out larger, and
smaller,
like a balloon exhaling
I am coming apart under
the moons revolution
hours slack with over abundance
force minutes of decadence
to fall fast as midnight,
and i am entrenched in it-
i become, scorched- useless, loved
lusted and dead
the hunger a ghost feels is no hunger at all
the desert has been worth every sacrificed
photograph
now though undone my
corpse dusts away down the
glinty sand, and the world of woman,
chase its
ash and shadow in to soft milk dream
and radiate no shame as i am resurrected
and fitted a new harness.

food, tooth and black beer

the order of
experience, the raw
field, the salvaged
lot, this open, empty
parking lot,
it,
that is the grass
the sundown sky
unfurls-
opens to the wind
in evening, and
vitalizes, activates
each stone toward
words and
words
each a fruit
a berry, warm
in the,
mouth,
opening, seeding
the stomach with its
extremities of being,
softly arching
and combining its
soil story with
my story
a man made of
empty narrative and
expanding sky.

POCKET MEMO

count
backward
to count at all
spread the
evening out
past,
- past
the linen
table cloth
- line it mathematically
born again
the mutable
bubble,
crisp truth
in
white
kitchen
light
knifes
the hock
and bursts
open
the black
wing
of starling, grackle
& crow.

fireside at the oil drum

why not dream of fish
why not translate easy symbols
faith,
have it
is the cola sign not a sign
red and white, austere
the color of Fresh blood on Bleached cotton
should the dingier square
not be a park, other than a rail yard
shouldn't the pond
contain Tilapia
instead of copper fillings
green as a dollar sign
i own more than 3 knifes, and
know that means gluttony
but i can not pair down the collection
this is the sand lot at the end of my mind
this is where i kick dirt and think,
halt at its corners, a ghost runner
standing in for some other person
at some other time, finding the fillet
blade waiting, i carve to the bone
the tissue, still living, it focuses, in and
blurs all the colors to one framed instant
that never existed- and now does.