“The sounds which I hear with the consent and coincidence of all my senses, these are significant and musical.” “Heard a blue bird in the woods about a week ago.” —Henry David Thoreau more now of pastures juniper knee-like wind yellow almost bound myriad nervous objectless points receive sky    the unconsumed visual wound as bare clouds […]

1 Unearned noon: sunned dishes, dinner’s remnants. Caducity of memory. Made much of: one I once was who’d never ever hurt a fly. Now, I watch each fly spiral, swatter readied in my hand. 2 Each act a fact tricked into frictionlessness. Bland rictus of faces: overworked, abstracted. Evidence subtracted from the sum of a […]

Broken almost in      two we fell away and in —           crushed U: Hands-made V.

A flourish of half fortissimo for the whole — suspended — he-bang.

Theseus finds himself detained in strange surroundings. Seems there’s some problem with his visa. He sits alone in a drab room with no idea where they’ve taken Pirithous. Through filthy windows he can see Shenzhen — preposterous architecture against a gray rinsed sky; the haze today thickened by a hangover from last night’s Tsingtao plied […]

Xerxes the King frowns through dark glasses flanked on the viewing stand by admirals and the bloated eunuchs of his staff. Newsreel film crews crowd a nearby platform documenting this day’s events for all Persia. In line along the beach before him the piked heads of his former engineers — Egyptians and Phoenicians whose bridge […]

They stood dumb beneath the beetling jungle in black Chuck Taylors and white t-shirts come to preach across the bridge less waters at a buckle in the brown Curaray. These Americans call the place Palm Beach, address its people with a Quechua slur. Over the river on the opposite shore Benjamin Whorf attempts to deliver […]

I’d like to describe clouds instead of people their increase up and out blossoming like the drawings of William Kentridge unfurling their subjects ghosts posing for portraits as if they were company to cowboys and the sunsets they ride toward to make sense of the hurt people put on one another. What is hate but […]

The bouganvillea does not curl in the acorn, the spores of the ferns crowd our eyes. She pressed small hands into the wet sound, pulled out shell-fragments, a kind of wood (white sand) pulled back her hair elaborate into a sort of knot-work. Barometers of jewelry and glittering leather, infant ear-rings spider-web hair knotted with […]