FEMORAL

Flintsharp
little
green Korean

emissary motivating—
sun-
harangued and bumping

up and
down through final
leg of deepest

south—stay
your tough
arterial course!—just keep

thumping—
such exotic
truth of Justin Timberlake!

SHADOW BOX

The inside
mechanics—of late

autumn's
best kinds

of brown are never
clearly defined—only

repeatedly!

and jointly advised—
by late-

arriving committees
of afternoon

sun and low
steady motion of

cars
like yours—flickering

windows through droves
of those-

colored Kentucky sorts—
of pines.

SORRY, SHACKLETON—

Forgive! 

the sound—

of hollow antarctic 

wind—

whose 

dull wail

I'll explore—

one hundred

years 

or so later—in order

that I might

lay claim

to better—

or, 

at least less-

deplorable—

sleep over some of my fussier weeknights!

THESIS

If the hunch
you lust
to prove
is tough—
that's probably
because
you're up
too close.

For instance—I just
got done
longing—
to suspect
that every lonely

mirror—out there
in the world

unexamined
as such
by a figure (like me
who needs—
from the
first—so much!
to be there)

cannot just-
ly exist
as a mirror
one bit!

Only—I didn't
know how
to think that
with justice

because I realized
I'm always
either standing—far,

far,

far too much
out-front
of such things

or else—just
in-front enough.

EMPTY PRAISE

Even on tough
full days—like this
there are these

sort of soft spots
to find
where imagination—which is

nothing really—gently
swishes
in and floods around—filling

more than
just some void
of god.

But where voluptuous
air and empty
arcs of light

are simply
glorious
enough on their own—

what use has thought
for a loaded word
such as seraphim?—let alone

an actual—
whole crowded
host of them?

FOR YOUR CARUNCLES

Felt a quick

pang spreading—there;

vague and 

thick in my quaking low 

back—upon lowering

your particular-

ly sleek pink and 

cold chassis carbuncular

down—for now, to the bottom-

most shelf of a Frigidaire;

and—without even 

really thinking—named it 

not thanks, but sympathy—

BACH COMPLEX

Gee—it's
swell

and
all—how well
the strings play

the themes—sawing

away—workman-
like—at such
symmetric
taut and
fresh teleological

arguments—
but truth

be known—all I really
want

to be told
is how?

could someone
who's simply—a little cobbler
by day—ever wind-
up—out there!

in tails!
decked-
out in black and sonorously

conducting
the whole affair?

CAR COLUMN

For an invariably 

different

take on your 

daily 

commute—simply

look—

for 

a 

heartbeat—out 

from any

number 

of far

less-

straightforward windows.

LEAVES OF GRASS IN A NUTSHELL

Stand clear, John F.
Jasper John
Cash Clay DiMaggio!

Take cover, Woody
Allen Brian
Wilson Guthrie Ginsberg!

I think—
I'm about to sneeze
gross America,

over
and over—snotty

and
queer—all over

America! That is—
whatever

scraps
of America I hear

you're likely—
to come by

and wipe
off—America's

chapped ass with later!

STILL LIFE WITH FRUIT

Most of the time—

I couldn't

care less—

that the apples 

most precious to me 

aren't clinging

red to trees—or even 

heaped green

to look 

pleasing in glazed 

concave porcelain—but rather,

just inertly 

dangling—from 

the ends of white chargers.

AUTUMN LEGEND

It's been said—

by them 

gloomy old

poets that knows—

that way

way way down

at the bottom

of yellow-

orange-

red sleeps a fetid

maroon-

guarded brown—!

MODERN MUSIC

Howling surprisingly

hard 

across the cold plains—seems like 

the whole host 

of bare jealous

deciduous treelimbs—has just 

started 

barking—in wind-

rattled

assiduous winter invective—

Christmas is 

icumen in!  Lhude sing

—goddamm-death!

by cold 

axe!

to them!—

conspicuously 

tall 

n' fat—emptyheaded!

blue-

blushin'! mid-

western 

ever-

green chimney-

swab motherfuckers!

A PROGRESSIVELY DISAPPOINTING LITTLE THING

Wild—

bird!-

seed—

on-

sale.

HUH?

Thence—came a cruel
autumn

storm's thorough licking—
and
hence—all the stiffcurly

leaves here
have really

let themselves go!
(all hither
and
thither and
yon and so on) Yet—

provided
with such similar

kinds
of motivation—whither

would dithering I?

More
confusingly—whence? (not to
mention—why?)

ALARM CLOCK EPISTEMOLOGY

It's

just

sound—

that comes 

first;

any

sense—only 

a long,

long, 

long long way afterward—

RAINY DAY METAPHORS #13 & 36

On a hazy
purple

figment of afternoon—

me
and you

and little
Lucy too—were just

a few
old prunes stewing—

hot
and

creased
and

couched—
underneath

such thick

and heavy
oatmeal-

colored—
chockfulls of blankets.

UNDOING

The dimestore Arthur
Schopenhauer Buddhist

with all
his orange shiny

negative knowledge—still can't

imagine what it's
like—let alone
believe it;

because his death
won't be

like—
any color
or shape at all!

And knowledge—even the cheap
glossy
tragic stuff—is still just so much

spiraling—
gum-ball machine desire.

"HELL IS REAL"

How unreal!—could
a black-and-

goddamned-
white—gaping Helvetia

interstate billboard
actually

get, Indiana?

FULL DISCLOSURE

The wise old
beginner—an applecheeked boy

practically—
born

laughing
into a huge white beard

is a sometime
friend and weird-

ly potent little
notion of mine

when-
ever I feel—that one

too many—
lids are closing.

O SOLE MIO

Damn

the neutrinos—you aren't

my sunshine—kiddo

you're 

the thing itself;

a heavy

and hideous fusion reaction—I shiver

to even

realize I count on

constantly!—just 

to keep

desperately hot

this cheap chunk 

of rock 

that you're cooking 

me on.

BOYSROOM SATORI

This white porcelain
seat—feels

a little
warmer than it ought to!

A CAPRICCIO

If I were 

a bird—I'd just 

fly around!—flitting

my lack

of concern—

for that 

twiggy agreement 

up there 

between—subject

and verb.

SHAKER DANCE

Outside the old stone 

white church—drenched 

in cold November's 

crumbling afternoon 

sun—the western 

wind rattles proudly! his plainsong 

through bald stacks of 

adjacent 

black 

sycamore branches—

Glory! he cackles;

Glory! Hallelujah, America!—

can at least 

still make some snappy old-

fashioned—

American music!

ELLIPSES

Most of the time

we're all 

so completely—inscribed 

by who

the heck 

we are—

that we couldn't possibly! swing 

eccentrically widely out-

side of the thing

nearly enough 

to describe it's rough 

shape or its

color 

or weight or intrinsic 

design—even if we tried;

which—incidentally

or more

circumstantially-

speaking—we do—and do 

desperately—

for all

too very 

much of our most of our

all of the time—

THIS POEM IS THE PATCH-BAY

There's hardly anything 

like a transparent 

little—for the sake

of which—

to softly nose a 

quick pinch 

of—significance 

into so many—cold stacks of pretty

knobby

and stiff candy-

colored equipment.

INTERCOURSE

See with
pity—the silvery
blind man

shrewdly tapping
towards the bus stop—forced!

to engage
the whole world
through only the outermost

tip of his cane—but wait

a minute—how
is it

that you do it?

ULTIMATE PUNCHLINE

Reams 

of their poems—or of drafts

of their thoughts—or of words 

of those thoughts—only just 

written-

out kind of 

ugly 

and—then

tossed! or perhaps—torn

to shreds 

of—such—fresh smithereens raining!

down, but

like—what exactly? exactly!

like that!

Yup—like 

streams, yes!

like streams

of fresh autumn leaves cascading 

so 

as to be—? carefully, no

devoutly!

observed—by an eye and perhaps 

some kind 

of lucky sun? Or—so as to be

just

re-

possessed 

fresh and reprocessed

into much 

smaller

and kindlier! 

kindling for thoughts—to be scrupulously 

scooped-

up and laid-out and then, of course, possibly—

completely

renegotiated later.

For the sake of which—

all poets

are learners—not teachers.

#1 KOAN

Aren't 

you—

for-

getting 

something?

CHROMATIC SCALE

Up and down the rainy

busy highway, all the hardest-

working colors—the kelly 

green of sheetmetal 

signs, the pale man-made 

grey of roadways and skinny hyper-

reality yellow of thin lines—stand cross 

and stiff—foregrounded 

and jealous—

of the drooping mangy auburn

that slopes to grace those 

loose tresses of trees—and the quick 

shocks of ad hoc persimmon 

that hug scads of shrubs swaying 

listlessly off in the foggy 

and trivially 

pretty periphery.

Why is it?—they grouse,

that some streaks of light 

are damned to be so

plainly—

seen all the time?

While others just get—to hang back

and shoot, pretty vaguely

for some truly amazing—

incidental scenery?

PLAN COMMISSION

It's not enough

to just

believe it—brick

by

brick by

brick—you have 

to 

have—an argument

built

and bought ahead 

of time,

in order

to get it eventually

sold, and then 

maybe—finally

 

paid-for.

LAST WORDS OF APOLLO

But!—It just couldn't be 

science

that's hauling 

this ponderous,

chary and 

frosty octagonal thing

gradually—above 

the whole grateful 

sighing ménage 

of orange trees and old castles

that happened to spring 

from the chunky autumnal 

region of rock 

that you survey below—come

on!—think

hard!—everybody

at some point 

or other—has felt that there's 

something

that's far, far too heavy

for physics 

to lift—let alone carry!

HAS HORSE'S EARS

Careful!—there,

reticent 

Monday complexion—look-

out for loose heavenly

reams of leaves 

falling—not exactly

your way, but slightly 

right

at you—

at ten

o'clock, or maybe 

then—sharp 

in the morning—up 

ahead in the cheek-  

stinging wistful 

sweet wind of November—with all 

its 

might whisper-

ing—

What the hell?

what 

the hell? 

what the 

hell

what? 

the hell

are 

you?, sighing

down 

there—still

doing?

not-

laughing—

OPERA PLOT

A soprano 

and chorus's back-

and-forth chattering—implicitly 

concerns the stately 

young

breadwinner tenor—as he hammers

such rich! 

and rhythmically-complex strains 

of butter—onto 

scores of morning

toast with his radio going.

BOREAL

Salient variety
of whetted

tangy leaves—
originality! forever

is your
noiseless

falling—
fate.

THE POINT IS THAT YOU PROBABLY DON'T

ever notice?—
how
repeatedly

we cope

with all these
illimitable

and pains-
takingly beautiful

solid closed doors—

simply
by
mindlessly

lifting their latches?