Thursday, July 17, 2014

Hand Sanitizer

Since when was stupidity an impediment?
We’re all equal:  one asshole, one vote.

If I sharpen my speech, will you come home?
Or did you want me to cozen your purple?

There is nothing to say
And we like it that way

The most anticipated poem of the year
The most constipated novel of the year

Keep out of the reach of children
They are infectious and virulent zombies

Tuesday, July 8, 2014


You are a very serious baby.  They didn’t think you had the guts to wear the monocle before the House.  The chaos of your mind solved the problem.  Tank-lined streets.  The earth shifts her chthonic slumber.  Harvest comes in like stooks.  (What the fuck is a stook?)  More barbarous than beauty.  Unchained at the lip.  The buildings are next to the park and the park is next to you and all of us are inverted in space.  I don’t want you to sit there.  Change my diaper.  After I slaughter this ethnic minority.  Notes pocketed.  The smallish senator from Kentucky an intelligent fanatic would like to offer a platitude.  Eat me.  Prometheus to the vulture.  Cacophony sometimes dips into a splay of order.  The still-moving substance of everything that is.  Infinite.  White.  As a wave pushing back the edges of nothing.  Why is this a zero sum game?  Thales was right about you.

Monday, June 16, 2014

The Rendezvous of Parallels

Mnesia, I love you
The stars and stripes of your breasts
Your digitalis at dawn
Why can’t we be distant and happy?

Let me be clear.
After splashing around
With abstract dolphins in canals of light,
I knew we were immortal.

If you are reading this
And feel like you are fading,
You are not alone.
I am that twinkle in the sky.

Monday, May 19, 2014

Assembly Required

The flowering trees have resumed their monopoly.
They get by on their good looks and the rain.
Being full of shit is no handicap in politics.  Apparently.
If you are finished, I will eat the rest of your meatballs.
This thing we are about to do cannot be rushed.
Who “we” are is not your concern.
April is the poetry month, or the Black History month.
All history is black.  (I knew you were going to say that.)
How much longer before the poetry starts?
Of all the days of the year, you had to pick this one.
You can savor every morsel, or shove it all in your mouth.
One is not terribly happy with the results.
The critical voices are circling with their indifference.
The cruelest one can’t even be bothered.
If you have somewhere else to be, this would be the right time.
I am a person only when I am personified by others.
Sorry to keep you waiting.  It won’t be long now.
I love you more than glossolalia.
Everything returns only intensified and wilder.
The authorities are protecting us from others like themselves.
One corporation may hide another.  Thanks, Kenneth.
A slight pressure to cohere is detectable now.
The page is not the surface, the rhythm is.
The intervals of silence between sentences is growing longer now.
This poem is not on any schedule.
There has never been any more consistency than there is now.
A change in rhythm is a change of surfaces.
Cherry tomatoes, white beans, fresh basil, balsamic vinegar.
There are lines in this poem some readers may find stupid.
Beware of your own stupidity, Cocteau said.
A broken line is written in the void.
We have been floating down the river of the afternoon.
The longer this poem takes, the more unwieldy it becomes.
It is like speaking when no one is listening.
Meanwhile a spy satellite is reading over your shoulder.
Every line is unique and has emotional content.
I’ve spent a long time learning how to construct them.
You've got to break the rules to know them.
The past does not, will not, nor ever did resemble the future.
This poem is greater than the sum of its critics.
If you are still here, buckey for you!

Sunday, May 18, 2014

Zinc Skies

Molten thoughts disappear under the sidewalk
Where the pressure of progress tamps it all down
Something pulls a hamstring a comet unquenchable
A bundle of cracks like smiles in the ice
Your mouth pent up against the glass

When there is nothing left there is still there
Gazing into itself whence the fold or the crack
With the thumb of dawn poking out
And everything returns only intensified and wilder
If that is conceivable to lovers

Amazed by the stupid things that replace you
Somewhere beyond the last filling station
In the province of disappear
The withering honey of reality awaits you
The bride of the city one hand around your throat

Sunday, May 11, 2014


Who fixes the machines
when they are buried in the deep
dark ground? The night, the train
is endless another unbroken
line that can never stop long enough
to read the faces in the windows
like fingers smoothing down the folds
of a coat feeling the weft
and wanting to go deeper,
or a drop of water, alone,
at the top of a tower of glass.

Let’s not name the ways
our hands have touched the dirt today.
I’d rather focus on the grass,

the Chinese tea and not the past.

Saturday, April 5, 2014

Theory of Travel

I am the angel of speed !

My instruments—jets, wheels, and walking sticks !

The boy with the bright blue jacket soaks his shoes in the surf
The woods were already cut when he got there
Beyond them the domes of the capital rise against the evening sun
He follows the red highway to arrive at a closed hotel

As a piano established in the Himalayas
Hollows out the canyon of its presence,
A train curving along the mountain’s edge
Climbs up above the cloud-habitats of men.
She had left herself and all of him behind
For where she was not likely to be found:
“If I could demolish the rules and keep the tradition,”
She said, “romantic and melancholic and austere,
Pieces that would be handed down, like a shawl,
To escape the repetitions of afternoon,
Mechanical thought, the habitudes of house
And home.”  The widow floating on the lake
Viewed the orchards and terraces of Ko.

My angel, my soul, my hypocrite
Imagine the luxury and languor of travelling first-class
In leather seats that recline into a chaise longue
Espresso exported from Peru to Venice
The latest financial news printed on pink paper
White burgundy black velvet blankets
Sleepy cigarettes, white chocolates that burn the throat
When privacy is optimal
You embrace me like a viola da gamba
Glancing around the cabin as we break the sound barrier
Here everything is decadence and pleasure
Repose, extravagance, and leisure

We notice on the ferry bound for Naxos
The color of the sea, when one looks straight down
And not from a distance across its beveled planes
It is as the poet says, not green, not blue

I pluck you like a sheep
From habits where you sleep,
Of body and of soul,
(The last, more powerful)
To keep you clean and clear
Of useless care and fear.
I might send you on the road
To lighten up your load—
Or plop you down a chair
So you may travel there.