Poetry
ungraced
“I’m not afraid of dying,” Charles said, “After a while, things take on a repeat.” he was correct, in that– every poem written has already been written by another by a greater, or lesser, or indifferent poet tho likely ungraced, by recognition tho likely unread we perish of our anonymity we perish of our fame […]
sky’s wide azure
black plumes spiral over fire’s hunger mocking the haste with which a home can burn dark-soot clouds– smothered and gasping hovering over ancient ire’s conflagration then dissipating never reaching heaven’s promised emancipation the lingering-gray mimim filling the days black, are our lungs lovers, sycophants, arsonists deep and greedy, our inhaled breath the ash bends as […]
mist of mountains
if only we could start over without our mummified history clawing ‘neath the soil’s moist rough if only the night could forgive the day for leaving it cold and lonely if only the mist of mountains touching heaven’s breast weren’t so far away we could, dear girl we might
haughty, hopeful, or ambitious
in an average day an average woman will speak 20,000 words an average man, 7,000 words the balance, kept drowned, while still kicking in an average poem and they are all average an average poet might pen 100 words or maybe 300 hundred on a haughty, hopeful, or ambitious day the cool muzzle of a […]
tall canyons
I took a walk through the bodies today each and all bathed in the gray of days some still moaning a few breathing a last heavy sigh and there beckoned above the iniquitous din a sparse-green hill just ahead, tho soon crested dipping next, into another shallow another mud-bowl hollow filled and writhing with yet […]
echo
three words have me bound their whispered sound falling into the tall emptiness listen, as they echo rattle, and clatter in the stone hollow this, their only– this, their honesty this, their return
ragged and frayed
it’ll happen like it always does like the hollow shine in the frightened eyes of the ragged and frayed the silent moments will become hours and days the days will become weeks the weeks, months and one day years from now decades, perhaps we’ll be living life as much as life ever lets us live […]
top-shelf dreams
We kept our dreams on the top shelf, with the good liquor, tucked to the back, out of reach, saved for a time to come, saved for someday– but we both knew; each of the days pulled over the shadowy edge, swimming into earth’s arched-spine spinning ecstasy, explodes into her moist middle, tho never impregnating […]
perhaps, a poet
blood-fist anarchy might serve us more honestly than love, children than greedy gods my progeny je suis charlie they chanted and screamed still, the names the lonely stares freed– this spinning chalk-circle riding stained-paper ships on spilled-crimson rivers among them perhaps a poet aye, perhaps– the last perhaps the best perhaps the only among them […]
briefly
they’d found a woman tied, and burned left, fetal, in the gravel by the train tracks north, a state or two she used to live– somewhere near here in one of these gray-shingle, red-brick towns but I don’t remember which town she was from and I don’t recall her name though I’d read it in […]