Marco among the stone walls

Where is this? I do not know,
just that i must have been there
the only value of this blurry photograph,
a note from the past, a note from
the person i was,
the person i must now forgive,
what a legacy of guilt you have
left, rocks in the shadow, stones in the light
built up like
walls, bone the center
each echo a voice fossilized in each brick
the mortar groaning in the bright morning
laughing at the absurd notion that this light
is the same
as yesterdays light, and that all our yesterday are
built up strong as walls, as small as dust.

breadfruit the pineapple with green

first the thought is i am crazy
then as time goes on and the
foundation of
a soul is built, my
feet as they walk produce an echo in the
pea gravel under the asphalt,
whispers return and the whole race of feet
march collectively,
under the grey is blue and in the darkest black
is mixed light cobalt,
a truth or not it is one
piece in the puzzle, the
window i look out of, where i
see the veil, a torn curtain, a desperation
of stitching, and want nothing
more then surreality,
French lessons, lions on beaches, all
golden all hallucinatory, an alarm clock in my mouth
going off when just the right combination of
words build up and instead of speaking, i wake up

there the wood sorrel grew last

the snow will sustain, the rest of the afternoon,
before the evening breaks its pink blood in to
squid and indigo, and the tablet count
will fall out
sheet
after sheet from the unwritten book,
the
new dead and the un-reined horse,
all ghosts of a season discarded
now held up like glass to the light by
young words and in a cruel infant vernacular
spread by snickering into
old phone trees, tossed aside
for dust off bees wings as
each head looks for the next gum drop
the homonym
community, where there is never
a haunting below zero degrees, where the hands
break through human skin and grab
each candy cellophane of heat
to let loose the mind
from the ferocity of the present enemy
a moment turned to face the steel charts of
clause and indemnity.

The standard size of envelopes

tonight
mergansers trim the moon language
shave misted verbs before the plunge
let us all in line answer-
word for word
love, concrete
an understanding of wire
as the corrupted
symbol of the steel heart
of stone dropped
instantly dropped in to the body
and counted as a soul,
the same view as Maine
or Brooklyn NYC, I know the
deep intrusion of this copper- it is
oxidizing inside of me, water
fire- first green, now dented blue
lunatic azurite, and wolfs at malachite
more fluvial then animal it flows
to the delineated day
framed in heavy arithmetic
until lit by the sun, all
orange in October
and December medium rare
pink and gray the defined
thing hangs there
ice and Spanish moss like
memories
like hair from every limb
waiting like water waits
for a place to go, with
tiny packages of each stone-
earth and moon, to carry
along like its own.

chlorine the migration of chimera

Condensing tanks
vapor their waste waters
to blue electric, a
flame, a ghost moon
a flare burning out under
water, a river passing into
rock in to language
in to the myth that
created man, hard
hearted and broken
in to a thousand living
landmarks, a sky frozen
and shattered in to
the Christmas lights we
long for, looking up through
trees through the dark
fingers of new man-
stars our ever clear
gaze that stares
down the night and
guilds each walker
home, to adventure
or dreams or the gamble
that this last
saunter will be the
final addition to the
puzzle and walking will
become flying and
flying will be floating
on light water,
the bone hand
lifting of the river, where
the ghost moon nightly
sinks and rises.

the furnace language in semaphore December

all the dead come to
visit in this shallow,
strides like river water ripple the
ghastly and the mundane
at this one hour, the
bones that crush,
dust up the out line of
each ghost, filled with girlfriends
high schools,
cars blank and mute with
clouds and clouds of smoke
hash the edible and the insoluble oil
mixes the memory to
quiescent grease the cement
of my soul at this hour
dead, dead and willing to put
a match to every building, every hut i
could later sleep in, to be now warm.

streets are numbered in the body, bones and more

what is the brick in the field, a pile
of red remembrance, a working mans
cinder a rich mans ashes
walk here in the windy chimera, the ginkgo
bough bearing the faces of each that passes
desolation and Buffalo avenue, collide
in the eyes of trout and heron alike
recording our endeavor recording
the finality of the Falls- on and on for ever,
our history working to shrink this haunting
sliver to buildings and photographs,
anything that can be built up, to fall down
and mark the train yard a red that
remembers bleeding.