Category: poems

  • across the rabid sky

    1. after your exit the rustling night stirs   2. blue wood in my mouth             the empty chair                                                                  and the table unset pasted frequency withers on my wall my hands wipe circles off the dying in my room i exchange vapor for your unfed voice

  • The Phosphorescence of Thought

    Flocked starlings’ geometric detonations inspired like fireworks.

  • After Marcel Duchamp

    Painting’s washed up. Who’ll do better than that propeller? Tell me, can you do that?

  • Stirred

    We mimicked the cypress, our knees cropped above the high, sunk-dry prairie, our heels hardpulled into our tails. He’d turn stories, aphetic for histories, genteel and curt: the Trail of Tears and the swampland of the Southeast as sure as succession, significant as skin, hide and bark.

  • Augury

    I. There again, sweat in the throat, bitter buttons fastened, tongue soaked, lambently new. The body’s disbelief — yaw of gait, delicate tango — a withered pulp perceptible. Marrow dark, acidic. Curette automatic as breath. You begin to disintegrate while dancing. The music like mold.   II. Sorrow song, the single crow circles west, whip […]

  • May

    Threat level orange town brides leave their whites hanged from fence barbs.                     For everyone to see at night                     a rarely used beam                     on a cantilever, deer                     carved on a vase.

  • Faith and Trust   (to Edward Taylor)

    I found a thistle flowerhead along the road like a sermon, old, defensive and patient. Nature spends herself in this way too, a territory that precedes her map, an eternal copy without an original, a composite and complicate intercourse of lost Geneses dispersed with wind. Inspire, Reverend, God’s word, original or not. Say something specific […]

  • The Economy of Attention

    I’ve blackened the window with asphalt, tarred the sash —                              more flammable, less visible —                 to catch you better. Crumbled in my hands, your tongue is the texture of detergent, it could clean lies from my tongue. Chase the ghetto from my […]

  • March

    Oiled neck of a girl is flowers, Golden Rod Convenience has only change for one hundred in the box. And I am becoming like that black wrought iron gate. Useful, wanting to swing inward with you for a bit of whatever it is you are having.