Wednesday, April 25, 2018

HALLOWS

Night rain
hoary moss
and mold grow blueblack

silent—fatally
covering the old;

morning thick
with sun-
blanched mist—the stuff

new souls
are made of.

Tuesday, April 24, 2018

ONCE UPON A DREAM

If I
know you, darling
you're so

ego-
centric, it ought to be

a breeze
not to think—
of all

the fat slimy
stone-
blind and
goal-haunted insects

writhing away—
underneath
your

perfect spring day.

Monday, April 23, 2018

OMEN

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

SUPER MARIO

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;
just

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
breakfast.

Friday, April 20, 2018

KISS YOUR ASS GOODBYE

As usual, there goes your
sallow face

in a dirty
shop window; not just

a reflection—the sum
total

of all the
things you don't know.

You'd think
that understanding

would look a little different
from its

absence—but it
doesn't.

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;
wavering

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

BESTIARY

Good
morning, good
morning—how are we

doing? This
morning, the part
of god

will be performed
by
that starling—

iridescent, gold-
flecked, 
under the cognac-

yellow spotlight
of sun
that's been tenderly shaving

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

flutter
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

PROBABLY

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.

Tuesday, April 17, 2018

FURLOUGH POEM

Almost contemptible,
if not so
preposterous—how that

gray squirrel (rival
mammal) wire
tail thrumming,

turning dizzy figure
eight
patterns in the park—routinely makes me

feel so green-
eyed in-
sufficient!

not for
working so much
less hard that he does

for liberties—like
work breaks,
monster lunches;

for not
more often capitalizing
on such

easy and abundant day-to-
day opportunities—to abuse
more legal stimulants.

Monday, April 16, 2018

GNOSIS

The galloping heart

is a crazy horse—it'll

have to be put down.

Friday, April 13, 2018

REUNITED

At last—
it is evening.

And Cause and Effect,
wearied

from the rat-
race

of counteracting all day, can
finally go strolling

together,
hand-in-hand—agreeably talking

shit
about everything.

Even the splashiest
sunsets

don't impress them—like:
why can't

the dumb 
clouds come 

in creamy peach colors 
all the time?

Wednesday, April 11, 2018

SIMPLICITY ITSELF

All night,

real as you like—
the same solid
white chunk of

rock goes on hanging—

suspended
in the infinite sky;
eternally,

invisibly bound—but free

of charge—
and clear
(for now)

of advertisements.

Tuesday, April 10, 2018

RITE OF SPRING

How is it, Chicago—the sheer resonant beauty
sponsored by your early
April afternoons

must always be composed of
so many smaller and
unbeautiful pieces?

Or had we better ask
the trash-mad seagulls?—
boomeranging hard just now

about the bloated clouds,
seemingly hitting
all the wrong keys at once—as if charged

yet again this season
with the inglorious task—of
just making sure

this wheezy old organ
still works.

Monday, April 9, 2018

YIELD

Even the scrawny
disenfranchised 
flocks careening past

all seem to slow-up 
and cease their incessant 
honking for a moment—

acceding to this
puerile April
her quiet, cool quiescence

as a quite 
unhinged and lion-
headed 

March keeps 
raving 
in her girlish face.

Friday, April 6, 2018

PARISH

Sometimes I wish I was
a whole congregation;
then I'd have much
better excuses—like

this pied blue profusion
of fat waxy pigeons, messily
ranging the neighborhood:

one minute riding
high upon the majestic
voice of the April wind,

the next low-bowed, pecking
and scratching at every
crack in the asphalt
for a tidbit of breakfast—

never potent,
not concentrated enough
to wonder

whether anything
at all
is going to turn out fine;

knowing nothing
of god—only of vanishing
opportunity.

Thursday, April 5, 2018

SUSPICIOUS

Around
noon, these stiller

days, I
see you lying

dubious
on the ground—

my nearest
enemy,

my dear
equanimous shadow.

Silent, ponderous, you
invite me:

sit right down, stretch out
the immediate

until it becomes
the indefinite.

Every breath, unspeakably
useless,

all alarms—
pure sound.

All my love—now
sticky,

contracts down
into—pity and attachment.

Every move
I no longer make

is practice;
every itch

I refuse to
scratch is

a preparation—
for death.

Monday, April 2, 2018

FEELINGS

Sometimes, it's like I can
hear myself hearing
myself talking, and

all of a
sudden, I get this weird
hunch—prefab

and
storebought—words
are just shirts

and pants
for my thoughts—which, in
turn, must just

be so many
torsos fingers toes
arms legs crotches and butts—

all bumpy
and wrinkled and ashy
and ugly and what-

not—and not one of them
autonomous; each one
nothing but

a nervous
quivering slave, a soft
fleshy pink

robot—pressed tough
and eternally
into the electrically

controlled
neuro-muscular
service of—guess what?