galvanizedsoundcore.

C130 prop engine
echoes cupped hands to the
bottom
of this
dear roads aching pot holes
melting under memories lean Sunday South Carolina
green trees
i am measuring release
with white
island sand
new words for
knife wounds
mortared sick leave disease
there is
gray birth and clay-less mother mathematics
drenched in chloroform love
time disabuses each crow south lawn of
of the pyromaniacs that the
heart mollycoddles with matches and gin
a step through doors the knife edge spelled out
in 1st grade song detonating over The city
ripping A sky
for 55 years
silent
March has come and gone and the print radiates
guardian, juices sweet and invalid
holding all comers at bay
the door closes effortlessly and
the solid machine spreads warm afternoons in to
the purled ghost of May.

rewards program

the core eases lee ward, not toward the

sun

mind you

but toward faith, temples, vacant malls

toward new mountains

signaling the grape

crushed in the broken hand

the bloom of glass-lightning-sand

there a crisp circling of birds:

means- for the lonely

rain,

yellow leaves falling

and the sidewalk,

walnut tea stained

bleeding
a fortune tellers copper coined palm.

Atlimitlesswindow.

Cramps the tool – wrench

under the breast

the New Worm Moon is desperate

and reflects it's none-ness

on to the midnight street

fingers each leaf of fate

the evolution of skin

softens

under longings totem

the folds of ocean tides

under the influence of

moons moribund ride

returns blue and

pale, an easy Phoebe

in the weeks to

come, oh yeah clandestine

rose over our

back lot trees

one single star, or

Jupiter, angry

sputtering and alone

waiting for crisp

union, in springs soft

water dissolution.

cannibals.

her blue eyes are

littered with

pillow cases of candy and

star wars movies,

she is well

aged

in her thirties

and has run

most of her devils in to the

ground, her protracted seasons

where just

sweet tarts and mounds

of industrious

rage released

as love love, and there she

has stayed,

taunting all comers

to take their

best last shot,

the past remains re-glued and

untouchable,

there sitting on her

day bed,

her high school journal

labeled journal

and her poetry

labeled poetry, then,

now

in a box under that muffled bed-

but this is not about her

cubical life, it is about the

orchards,

10 miles

from her apartment, her

mothers house,

so close to the

farmers market-

its about

her sheets, her bath robe her

long, empty Sundays, its about her

not being

with me, its about me.

Bagged sea salt cheap

I salt my carrots with
necklace rust, my slow sun
drags numb oil
across asphalt blue trails
the stiff element of time
like
a
spoiled
pen, remorse coats none
of these documents
the ink is remote from its
formula- this like sunfish
crappie,
the maelstrom carp- raining down
on to this listing map
drawn in to life a skin of seconds
shimmering liver, or pancreas
sweetbreads, the brain
i am packed full of these ticking
guts, a sunset in nylon, lard
in a gill net, easing out the
wide wide holes that caught
time to begin with.

buried

i've decided to bluster
smash a small chair, be bold
once and
then retire to
drunken equanimity
wriggling the fish through
the net one last time
freedom, and then the pan,
how lovely is that
freedom- deboned and
popping the olives pressed
to sear, a holy land flowering
calamity,
so so long in the sun the
farm land fits in to the palm of the
hand, pushed together the
hands mostly remember to plead,
and mostly forget to open and receive.

void as dragon

there is a creeping waster all-
an orange goblin benefactor-
a monstrous cabbage eater
we are THE POLISH
and the dancers on fire, flamed in ghosts and
parasols,
do you know the interactive
value of the iris,
i never knew how little to trust
and if the bread is black it
either feeds or eats the heart
it stands still-
the heart to hold pins & needles
a bouquet of hypodermics,
blood the slippery finger of the soul
holds the fish hook
like gruel, cruel barb of
mythical square, bowl and
portal to the gut
of history
so packed with crap the rose
police,
with their only gold watch will
hope to beat the sister of your sister
and order YOU more water for your whiskey on weekdays
and bright blue hydrophilic beach breezy drinks
on the dullest of sports car weekends- give
a scrape of melancholy, moulder at the base
of clocks, and release [off] minutes like
swimmer meant for the graves of the sea.

yturtyurt

move the method stirrups
to the sweet face, in the
glacial fields, letting the
air born fall westward over the horizon
the wild turkey cringes in midnight
march, waiting on the
hot hot heat of
morning
to institute the howling of life-
hang the freezing at the door, find
northern rest at the
hearth restate every brick with a
photograph,
and quote constantly
the genera of each age
so incorrectly that
the text
fables freshly out
your mouth
like minted sticks of gum
the collateral of each birth to
chew anew, the
gargle of the past
we are here poised for ever
and hoping the glove of history has
slipped, it strangles like a hand
every chance it gets.

ourness

the last moment of her apparatus
collects points at her lip
freshest makeup applied, plys
the evening air
warm paws from beasts bloodiest
chill, and
her eyes canned champagne-
the rolled
isotopes of stars
wrinkling time, she holds
the hand of eternity still at the
side of her heart
hard as sheet rock, coiled creek beds and Triceratops fossils glazed
in museum cases
empty the rest of history
as her cells beat the wing of blue
sea change: foam
the color of everything
pulsed until death.