Thursday, August 25, 2011

there is no of

disregarding breath is a cousin of death

once removed.
the praxis of disbelief comes flying thus
through a coughing and gasping hysteria
only there is no death really really really,

the goldfinch has beautiful wings.

a truth birthed of lies if ye follow.

yes memory no memory
through the pierced pellicle
of sun streaks yellow orange
now on the branches of an oak
you can barely remember.

little jimmy beat with a bat,
susie swooned against and wept.

initials perhaps in carving
from a blade now rusted
with a wolf risen emblem
that once you were proud.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Read this in Ragtime or not at all

Dark matter doesn't matter so much it seems,
what matters darkly is buried in dreams,
filling a void towards the apple that fell
upwards from heaven to luminous hell.

O! The Mythology!

(Not to make light of the Hindenburg,
but, hey, though lighter than air-
that was one heavy crash, man)

I love fiction, yes it's true-
There ain't nuttin' fiction ain't do.

(And it's made us what we are today)
That's history in a nutshell-
multiple stories, multiple lies.
Here's a bad pun: greaves against griefs.

Where's my Surplice?
Where's my Pooja?
Where's my Incense Stick?
Where's my Tiki?
Where's my Torah?
Where's my Fetish?
Where's my Hound's Tooth?

(The last one is for Coco Chanel-
That's a belief system too,
but it could be an amulet
or a fetish too too too taboo.

Best to ask Fergus,
after the Druid.)

Guess what? You're gonna die.
Know what? So I am.

Numbed by clear and or ruby red
philandering by a secret name,
was he was known or was blind
to an awkward table lamely set.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

Now and Then and When

If I had somewhere to go
I'd be there.

Only now is only now,
orthogonal to then 
orthogonal to when.

Not talkin' about the birds. 

Or am I?

The flutter of blue wings
and a quick peck and 
a red splatter on denim.


Drop from the maple
in heavy august mist
and run to the cabinet
for the salve salve salve.


Feathers rise from the goop
and cycle of eggs and beak.

Past then tense and when future.

The clarity of a peacock
scratching the urban grit
of a granite window sill
is the only proof proof proof

of feathers and breath.

Now and then and when.

If I had something to say
I'd say it.