A ghost lies still spilled on the floor
shining like I had imagined soft breathing-
a light enshrouded by my trembling regret,
pulling my chest to the floor.

Its smile is the imagined warmth
made heavier by truth,
made into purposelessness,
into awkward levity.

There is no promise,
as perhaps a promise requires some merciless constraint-
and things are just what they are,
and surely the nature of man is further want-

but man admonishes a night’s rain,
and flees from it.
and the solemnity I feel in a midnight downpour
doesn’t bring the light
of that poor ghost, spilled on the floor.

[x^2 | x <- [5..32], x /= 18, even x, confident x]

Blessed virgin, whose shapeless loathing
has caused striation in her forearms-
giving herself to the faceless lovers
who will live her story without her and within her

what touch is human that does not taste of salt?
what flower blooms without our notice?
the breath of kings which mingles with fresh-slain serfs
made more clear by the biting cold surrounding them

blown-out socks
the smell of overbearing soap
the desire for friends at a train station
belonging without requirement

On the second tuesday of a boring september
the lady at the front counter
(the one who gave you your room key)
may have wondered how many of you there are

and how many won’t realize that they have always been you.

8 ’til midnight

Run outside, you’re dying anyhow
tear your muscles from the back of the apparent hand
when you’re staring at the sun, it’s hard to flinch

Your dancing god will smite everything
and the jewels will cut your feet
as you stride across the floor

strewn with the blood of love and hate

strewn worse yet with the glance of apathy

Ouroboros of well-planned mediocrity

and look now, it’s midnight.

The blinding Narcissus (Pity’s Grace)

Seen and felt, considered yet –
the open eyes of an inconsiderate state –
Mute, her voice never returning, but ringing forever
In the heads of menial, partial, tangential lovers,
Their psoriasis-claimed limbs extended in dearest gestures

Though flowers will dance
my hand extends to know them,
piteous, cold.

The glorious tears which kissed formlessness!
Like mopping god’s floors
with peerless regret.

There can be few things precious which do not die.
There can be few things precious which cannot live.
This, the most spiteful truth,
the burning pitch in my chest,
knows the time it keeps, though quiet.

What is the morning, kissed of winds and the vapors of love?
What is the dusk, purpled with memory?
What is night, when we cannot see, and have only hope
which brings us terrible reminders of damnable agency?

To any far point
no great thing shall endure yet-
such bifurcation.

Facile, and false thus

As you have choked, so now should you continue
and, bereft of gifts, fall silent.

So falls paradise, like black dresses when questions are pushed into minor keys,
their music the march of a hopeless parade.

What brushes with tender skin, what lackadaisical rain, and anxious lead in your throat
have you mired so in myopy, the levity of joy, in others?

in crease and fold, in turn of point, in parsing of language and sin,
the sea rolls in to defy the king.

in calamity, in partiality, and in the desire to be useful,
the commands to recede
bounce off of your pretty dress
and stick themselves in the pitying sand.


On equity, and tears as righteous as the stars

What of I-
a shameful, bounded pronoun,
kept in serious regard
by fidgety masters of angular homes.

but for you, though tired,
though cut to pulp and sinew,
and grave through trials,
my soul is choked by your tears.

for 114 minutes i find slow words faltering-
and consider at length, the thoughts of another-
“the same heat warms tears
as bears scars on a home.”

how keenly love wells up-
and after love’s death,
like fireflies glow, it returns-
momentarily de-focusing the world

Love is –
the most beautiful ,
lapse of judgement.

and you deserve somebody who appreciates the beauty in lapses in judgement.

the incorrigible manner of song (and how it spills from god’s eyes)

Though symphony plays
and the snowdens of yesteryear fade
through small packets too tiny to see
the tiny pinprick in my bowels
gives me pause, though unrealistic.

The trees and bushes of spleen,
of ideal,
of surity –
remain their welcome dearth of flower.

They beckon with the promise of fruit after precious care-
and yet the gardener dozes.

in trying to question a smile,
there are made pistoning,
shit-rendering answers.

and why are girth and breadth of my neighbors field
so pre-eminent?
and milk-white lenses so clouded-

perhaps, as you collapse, weak, you think:
“it’s been too long for regret”
“i’m more now”

and as long as either of those are true
you’ve done well.