Thursday, January 1, 2015

Let's call it square

So much happens in the window within a window
when you believe in glass and northern pine frame
rectangles for the view. Look away if you can start
to see the curliecues of paint painted long enough
ago to white curl in the autumn mist. Outside, the
maples turn so fast from green to red and orange 
that the frame cannot be frozen even if your own
breath was misting so. White frames be lying too.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

Looking for an echo

Play some doo-woop when I close,
earth angel a cappella into sixteen
candles overdose, looking for one
echo reverbing into soul complete.

Sweet sounds soar off subway tiles,
a white and grimy womb for rebirth
scrubbed by angelic harmonies neat,
little Frankie's tomb is not plumb yet.

Friday, December 5, 2014

If within a nested set so brightly painted

If within a nested set so brightly painted
the faces seem a bit contrived, with rough 
rouge ooze to thickly rush a thin disguise,
smiles too bluish to fool a sampling mind

with gnarled fingers to grasp the tropic root 
rolling from the antipodes soft into laughter
while a warm sunset inflames a viral dance.
If distant orange circles encircle, and snakes

in tropical spirals around frozen glances twirl,
the northern lights slither diamond and yellow
while on the lunar child a sneaky goat awaits.

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Too many sirens

After tales of brave Odysseus passed, too many sirens 
still blown down Central to pass Magnolia, silent again 
at Rosalind. Some poorboy called the mayor before I 
bought some wax to plug the only way I hear. Heard 
one sad guy after the blues had swept the clean streets 
clean again: he was going to shit in a cup and leave it 
as his legacy, on the street. On a one-way street, one 
of the sirens, piercing loudly, said no way, go south.

Thursday, November 6, 2014

Just when you thought it mattered

Nothing, she said, could be further from the truth.

The orange of the sunset owes you nothing
despite your claim to fresh air and heartache.

Once when you dreamt of a glorious future
the pointed hands seemed frozen in time,
starkly arced and black on a face gone pale
in anticipation of things to arise and come.

The ticking resumed but there was no reward,
only the rhythmic reminder of time passing
and the sinking sense that growth had ceased.

Nothing, she said, could be further from the truth.

Sunday, November 2, 2014

Too many grails

So many wooden cups with long stems and chipped lips
scattered where the trees are green. Each cup real, each
cup a mirage where the trees are purple, each a mirage
where the trees are green, each cup real where the trees
are purple. Shadows dance near the dumpster and the
shadows play within the mist. Shadows are still and the
dumpster dances with the branches of that purple tree,
with the branches of that green. So many wooden cups
with chipped lips and long stems from which to drink.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

Jonesing for an impression

A white chorus out of focus in a shadowed hallway,
a chanted cadence creeping out of dun but seized-

hymn singing sealed in search of hanged man ferns
beneath an ecstasy and a blurred floor and between

two walls. The mode is mysterious under soft ivory
arched ceilings in three dimensions this is only two,

so which face is blurry and which the sharp invert
so framed. What is done so hazy is but frozen blue.