Saturday, February 27, 2010

Nausea at Moon-rise, Re-Birth at Dawn

During the brief run from a spinning light
to the brass flashed plate of a keyhole tide,
you could feel the tunnels of fictions shrink
and freeze the geologic laws that govern stone:

black veiny marble with frothy pearls of clot
bled in gothic red on the funnel's twisty script.

Did I mention the ticking palpitations,
spiking along the cold wrought fence
with odd aspic medallions of even hearts?

Yes, it was a pocked marked sweaty frolic
that fashioned an image in the curl of your locks,
pursued though we were through the cycling spin
by moon kissed slurping through the lesser ferns:

we were feeling that fear that distracts from fear
if only for a fleeting clock of silvery breath.

I am speechless and yet I speak,
guileless and yet I beguile,
thoughtless and yet I think:

man, that is really boring-
one of the many days I often die,
in that place before the dawn.

The pin-prick mantissa of the visible kiss,
raised only a fraction of what was possible:

an orange blossom that unfolded in a bowl of broth
and slowly spun the hairy prayers of multiple birth.

Then, we ran into the gray creped mansion-
the laconic one slurped yellow bile,
eyes down in a library of musty footnotes
and dusty bindings muted in velvet rays
while the clever one spun of glee from fusty skeins
a dramatic green gift for the loquaciously visored.

Whether it was the ruby ink or emerald glass
we could not tell in the pre-dawn light,
trading the silver breath of tomorrow
for the baffling tongue of acid now.

wait a minute,
wait a minute,
wait a minute-
the sun's about to rise

Perhaps there was no illumination,
but there was a cirrus palate
that almost licked the sky.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

three smudges in the puddle

Whispers From a Rose

All voices hum now:
each murmur a perfect poem,
vibrations blossom.

Quantum What?

Infinite X's-
life's linear equation:
whatcha solvin' fer?

Concrete Paranoia

What if
half of you
got big
half of you
got small?

Saturday, February 13, 2010

In Search of the Spectaculous

Lifting an exhausted sock with prehensile toes
from the counterpane side of dawn's downy rose
is the minimally primal use of quintuple digits,
greater is savagely ripping a ripe papaya for musky seed
with sticky juice on warming fingers and frisky wrists,
and licking the thickening syrup with a simian glee.

There are seven ways that are less than prime,
all secretly scratched in clay by a whiskered few
and here we only lightly tease by noting two-
three through six are partly dusky and void of rhyme
but number seven, of necessity, involves a clue.

The clue is that little miss misguided Moffit,
made a u-turn and couldn't tough it:

Charmed by crystal and the spectrum produced,
she glittered through aqua and orange and spruce,
neither cowed by refraction nor sunlit but chance,
she spun through the motions of an anodyne dance,

At the bitter script of cuneiform prophets
she began to, leeringly, just peek askew,
coaxing brass music from ethereal bracelets
and waiting for clouds to razor the moon.

The clue is a little miss misguided Moffit,
she made you turn and couldn't rough it.

Murky bowcups indeed.

Friday, February 12, 2010

an almost innocent haiku

saplings bow to sky
oven mark now passing nine
salt and peaches pie

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Turning left for the milky way

The chrome knife of a yellow fossil
is your cut bone that cuts me too,
entangled neurons silver buffed
in the jungle subways humid brew,
prior to shrill and before the blade
basalt scratched the sankofa thrill-

we were engraved by comrade baby chrome
into a goosed cadence of pablum clumps:
from the stomping argyles of pedantic hue
to the saline paths of washed-up krill-
a tidy nexus of etiolating fuck-ups ensued
before I left my sun-block out of reach
in the sandy bunkers on the washed-out beach.

Idle graphite scratched on wordy grout
their tack itself a talismanic snack,
hinting at the facial rituals necessary for
protection against sardonic maps of melt:
long in the sun but not long enough
I needs some heat for my feets please.

When hurtling and huffing on a sunset train
in a westbound carriage of terminal sun,
a bad pun in Dutch about cannon fodder
does not stop the pain or cancel the jones
of watching unpleasant seasons tick through time
a wrist for which is overkill, limping into stardom-

when the pillow cut meets the fossil bone
birthing a little flutter in the licks of distant stars.