Nearing the new

malleable and crisp
the breath in front of me ephemeral
never minding the forwardness of its mingling
with yours

the klaxon sounds politely
from the tips of hope-d emerald,
the grains of sand fall through your breast
into open sores.

rearwards came Hush, unsightly
and pressed further distance, shunning
what parts of us were best
we meet with our eyes on orion’s belt.

taciturn, taking time to talk,
behind the fan that’s kept us running
is lonesome query remains just this:
how are you, dearest, and how have you felt?


those closer eyes and further hearts

“what became”, she says, “of those years?”
and i feel my eyes slowly pumping the boiling tar,
filtering into my throat like burned coffee

is it truly so inhumane
to hate
to desire the fall of another human?

the sky itself ennervating, salient fucker
gloating while i wonder silently
if my aorta has clogged for good this time

and i will regret,
and i will consider,
and consideration will remain my constant inquisitor.

outside of what i am stands a glass,
and on the other side of the glass stands the all of you,
but no matter how i tap, punch, gnash my teeth,
i remain as silent as that asshole on the other side.

slow drop
no bottom
no sharp suggestions
i can look at the sky for as long as i want.

The smell of asphalt when it starts to rain

the slow continuation
of this languid, sweating day
falls down from the sky
to the bed where we lay.

a pleasant tinnitus
slung low around your waist
keeps the somnambulist
bereft of all his haste

the trees will sway, courteous,
blessing the homes with a bow-
and the pain in my back
has been silent ’til now.

it’s been years yet
and years will come farther
but i died in the sun
in the languid arms of march.

The myopic court

and it is thus that we paint the forwards of our brains
in muddy red paint, and it seeps to the middle,
clogging, nullifying hope, the dream of the damned-

the cooler outside seeming more pleasant
dancing and inebriation filling the shapely flask-
warm breath making that cold steam and disappearing

which of you has climbed the mountain and grasped
the ugly and heartbreaking edelweiss?
the moment slips through your deft fingers, moistened with dew-

driving back and reconnoitering – it’s like i never left –
i am nothing outside, a man who writes haiku inside –
the grand bises anoint the worthy, but i sit with my feet in the river.

this voice scratching through my breast-
is it really mine?
as i run, my memories become hotter,
they come close to boiling,
such is the kinetic energy of another day wasted.

Upon the azure flower

Daft gods! discovering, clearing, allowing us to falter:
what minotaur must we escape this glowing day?
we shall deign consider our quandary, afixed to this cold chair-
trusting only ourselves and our simplest machinations.

unto our inglorious hill to be taken against slaughtering machine gun-
we tread, indefatigable for wear, fixed on a solemn prize: an azure flower
the only warmth found in this azure flower, clearing the be-milked world
from the pain of a hardened mind, a dulled wit-

ye men of singular flavor – of no other consideration but your singular aim!
how trustworthy you, one without else in goal, can be – edging ever closer
to the sinking ship you term “purposefulness”
have you bespied the azure flower?

“hapless he remains-
after the death of his only companion,
but he knows the beauty of companionship, of love,
and he has bespied your azure flower, this perfect imperfection as he is.”

“now leave me be – i do not want to be bothered any further.”

gray among earlier reds,
the flattened head of the venturer sits alone,
a penitent reminder of the beauty of times
now long ended.

he does not move
he can no longer, as it is not his power.
lifeless and shapeless, he has found no reason to continue-
but upon his breast, warm like the memories of kisses,
warm and ever fresh, never fading at all,

lays across his breast the azure flower.

and there it remains, never to be profaned.


we should dance how we want
it’s not the morning that is terrible
it’s the day, the time when everything is so visible!

stretching hands up up UP UP UP
to the place where you have _no ears_
you can’t apologize faster
you just LISTEN and hope for the best

When does the cloud come to cover the painful sun?
but i really shouldn’t….


what time is it now anyway?
is it time to think about the past?
is it time to consider the faltering expressionlessness
of the heart i have yet to leave behind?

ma- warukatta noni,
gomen. hontouni gomen.
sorekara, nande tayoruno?
kokoro ga ittakatta n jyanaino?

sekai no junbi
is still evading
as my hands clasp tightly
tout rien.

kimi ni aita tokoro e

to jump and jump and keep on jumping
you never go fucking ANYWHERE
but you keep jumping
and one day the ground stops being the ground
and then you’re free, when the rules are no more

like the air blowing out of a reed instrument
without finishing the note
without the painful staccato of concision

but who did you think about when you sang
about walking through fleming, alone?
who is this dark and wonderful man
who caresses the forest of your dreams?

and the swell
the swell
tell logic where to stick it
tell them about your broken heart!
tell anybody who will listen!
tell strangers who will not understand
tell the inanimate of soul who will not cling to your words
and will only cling to your gently swaying hips

who will cling to your words?
and your shy smile
and your determined look
and your twitching passion
and your simple, clean, pure and beautiful


am i worthy of such passionate lament?

parity (challenge poem)

Robert took the 7 am train across town,
through the main part of the central burrough,
across spans of land like belonged to no-one
and yet belonged to everyone except for him.

the sun climbed up behind the train,
making shadows cast like arrows
pointing gloomily when lengthened, as with the trees,
gaily when shortened, as with the grass.

the cool metal encasing him
smelled like the sour of his hands
like the amore of a journey
like dilligent engineering, and a crisp uniform.

these new paintings on the wall
ever variable, of listless program
shorn away the singleness of his thoughts
blending canvas against the amelioration of self.

“to be new!” he thought,
“to have to exist in the raiments of children~”
his excitement pausing at the sight of a burning home,
people running about it, far away, silent, as ants clamor,

anxiety pressing on a chest already filled
with the warm, viscous liquer of the new,
he presses the attendant for news-
“what of those poor shaking souls?”

“what of the plebians, the unfit proles?”
hisses the attendant with luscious browning froth,
saying nothing more, leaving steaming words to burn robert’s ear-
and therefore he never came this way again.


the slow and plodding Echo
crying to herself from a mile away-

“let me show you
what you thought you should never know-
and i will dance with you
as the sun abandons us”

the windows

god i can’t write a damn thing tonight, either. is it even fucking worth it?


The bumble-bee (as under glass)

a grimace and  some spent out oil,
sinking slower into squeaking seats-
your voice echoes in my head
like it never should have
and i retreat –

punctilious, yet aimless
the better of less, the worst of more,
i sit,
having not cleaned body or mind yet today
impulse stinging my palms,
and i retreat.

how i long for silence
and the rhythmic pulse of warm breath
a soft breast on which to lay my head
itself expanding, contracting, saying quietly:
“listen to this part of immortality,
and nestle your chin against precious brevity-”
and yet i retreat.

memories polish
and reclaim
and fill in
and tax-
and declare the need of clemency in smaller issues.

when your hair gets stuck in my mouth,
it reminds me of that time i spent on the banks of the river,
wondering how deep,
too afraid (or too comfortable) to simply jump in
and maybe (if i was so lucky) to sink to the bottom.


Behold! the soldier’s death:
terrible, powerful,
too sudden to feel weighty-

a sinking throat
reborn as a rising voice
the martyr of hastings, the sergeant of Normandy-

the grass under him does not heed his tragedy
nor the sand which collects his blood
in brittle clumps
know the hymn his mother sang
on Tuesday afternoons.

but once, and now forever
with ammunition clutched tight on his breast,
with sword shaking in pale schemes,
he hears the voice of Mars
of Anann’s terse elegy,
of the strings of the Valkyrie,
calling him to fight forevermore.

pierced heart
or lung
detached and leaking spinal chord,
the part of his brain he loved so tenderly with, sliding out
washed out like his ball-turret
fading like a train’s departure

“Glory” he thinks
he knows
“is to have performed,
to have shown that fear in death
is miserable and ineloquent.”
“glory is only useful to the living.”

“hi! my name is Anna – my mother said to come over here and play with you –
you seemed lonely.”