Friday, March 28, 2014

Death is never convenient

Death is never convenient. Assuming a wet call later
might intrude, had kofta on a platter grounded fresh
but the journey to Washburn cemetery again comes
into my focus. One or two shy rings, she gone. Again.

If research is required, look under eternal return. The
card catalog is also oak with burls and sliding drawers.
Warm again the southern breeze shows a brief promise
of spring. Route 307 wet has only seven ups and downs.

Green veins swollen under south winds reveal hid blood
that never can be resurrected in the way intended, dry
after the extraction is the way this goes down, a socket
that will not bleed. Holy water forming tears on the oak
after a roll on the carpet with a box and her pall re-folded.

When should be is resolved to is but nobody noticed but me.

Sunday, March 16, 2014

From gift to heaven

I wasn't hoping for a foy but you gave me a zill
so I went to find yummy rhythm in a desert hot,
chiming funny silver disks without a metal thrill
of my own. A mirage entered late my only shot

for salvation, sand so cool at night a gone mystery
where you fear dawns, fear that orange orbs rising
are the people inside of your head so sore of trying.
This place is dry, I would like to really green a tree

but I cannot find water beneath sand. Thin mocking
voices float sibilant but I should have earful known
that hiss from before, should have known a-rocking
in the cradle would resolve to this. Cannot be flown

the skink, cannot be flown the newt, birth defects
deny wings, deny in white marble a cold genuflect.

Sunday, March 9, 2014

Not ready for a threnody

Nothing new do the sun under nothing a new asunder,
now, when blues bled go pervert for the big melt start-
ah, a domestic bliss that hides white in frozen blunder,
initial grey siding peeled once so hard and flaked apart.

Snow melts. Things fall apart in spring, brown storms
blow down the self-effacing hills. A wry smile will not
save you this rump season. Give up on thought norms,
saving red delta soul not: a guru collecting geld is snot.

The eyes that were meant to pierce the blue always fail,
philosophically. The first time I did not look in your eyes
I was a flood that never ended, receiving a limp wet mail
post-dated with streak ink, a mascara hint of sad demise.

The suffering bamboo, now no longer laden frozen snow,
will bounce up green to clear the concrete path you know.