Wednesday, April 25, 2018


Night rain
hoary moss
and mold grow blueblack

covering the old;

morning thick
with sun-
blanched mist—the stuff

new souls
are made of.

Tuesday, April 24, 2018


If I
know you, darling
you're so

centric, it ought to be

a breeze
not to think—
of all

the fat slimy
blind and
goal-haunted insects

writhing away—

perfect spring day.

Monday, April 23, 2018


Clot-like, the old day's
overripe fire
spreads across
the deep pink water;

faraway, the oozing clouds
look lavender (though this
is quite impossible)—isn't there something?
You're supposed to remember.

Ghostly music
plays off
somewhere—a fantasy theme
blurred at each note's edges

by the increasing-
ly slow movement
of time—isn't there?
Something you're supposed to remember.

A lone seagull, high up crescent
of wheeling silver,
stabs in sharp relief against
the conjured scene

might be willfully mis-
taken to be
a dove—if not
for the distinct lack

of olive leaf—
might even
be taken
to be a raven—if not

for the
mostly just irritating
screeches it delivers:
Isn't there something you're supposed to remember?

Saturday, April 21, 2018


Those borderless flowing Saturday
mornings, slowly drowning
my capacity to imagine

a faraway
world where eggs
and milk are hard to get.

Touch another star, why don't they?
Like he can;

shut up
and eat that
fire flower, or whatever.

Again and again, I bust my head
against bricks, see if
I can

snort up the dust, call it
a balanced

Friday, April 20, 2018


As usual, there goes your
sallow face

in a dirty
shop window; not just

a reflection—the sum

of all the
things you don't know.

You'd think
that understanding

would look a little different
from its

absence—but it

You stop. For a
second, both of you

stop. This is
no stranger—not even

a vague shadow.
This is your twin;

this is your exact double.
Except—that rift

(which you feel beginning
to pulsate now

as a physical thing;

but thick,
cold and impenetrable,

like the tight knot of muscle
between your stomach

and your lungs) you sense
isn't mutual.

Some gaps
are real; certain lacks

are both
solid and unbridgeable.

You could
bring him water—but you couldn't

make him take it.
You could never

make your
right hand do

the things his
left is doing.

Thursday, April 19, 2018


morning, good
morning—how are we

doing? This
morning, the part
of god

will be performed
that starling—

iridescent, gold-
under the cognac-

yellow spotlight
of sun
that's been tenderly shaving

down last night's
stubble of
show showers—watch him

down now, to begin
our production

from first-position—on top
of the back-
alley line transformer

to peck a bit
at a glistening
peach pit in the wet gutter.

Wednesday, April 18, 2018


Even though it 
doesn't exist, there is still
this certain word
whose terrible weight is immeasurable—

it sits there on the page, like the derelict 
tufts of half-fermented leaves 
and stray cigarette 
packs, obscuring every storm drain,

it looks from far away 
like a languid ribbon of rising smoke—pretty
but useless 
in a windless sky, 

it sounds
like the unsought hysteric 
tack of hard rain 
against every midnight-blue windowsill,

not the sound 
of any one specific music—but rather, 
of all music put together's
bleary echo.