· the cultural society ·

No way into your face, just a flame to be at home in, and so I come to understand cold. Far away, slowly, shapes take the place of snow, until even weather appears to be dead. What late thought, what careful error — that hearing in you spares me.

Ask not reason, Klytaemnestra, or probe your ice-pick through those multiplying diptych grams. Ablutions rain down worthy patronness, the saint between cleric and layman gesturing prosperity and war. Black lines border yellow, red and the white poofy quiff tangles in a down-heaving brand. Shave me clean as an ice- pick, pink soft fasten bulbous. Splooge […]

gory bone good war read I’m out of my jurisdiction                                              but string infinite                                              progress along                                                                                in theatrical homage                                                              to patricide   I’m lucky, I’ve the filthy powder that tips the bucket spilling itself entering into is a displacement of having been kindly invited     ~ ~ ~     we arrived     the hardest […]

The book opens, tangled in misfortune. One walks into this world having been silent and suffering out the universe, remains. If bruises place damage, bodies are nothing more than banned books. Complete waste of images. The book opens with an evacuation. My father scrapes into next century, but barely. His wife a wilted centerpiece. In […]

Meaty forays, tangled forums felt in the blue, felt along the white. Native born in edible spring a pattern is real. ** Monadnock and Rookery. The rustle in the grass is just the wind. I invented nostalgia. A pattern is real. ** The balloon man turns an oyster into a twisted heron. An agent is […]

The service did not bring us To our knees with gratitude. Still we stayed in Paradise, Awash in the sun of a perfect day, In the angelic choir of seabirds, In the congregation of sailboats, Baptized in love, Salvation in our own intimate heaven.

Above the drone the thumb string drones a cabinet clock

Possessions and scarecrow stand in noon-gone.               Voice! stand in noon-gone.               Conflicted King, once a beggar followed in markets by a Nubian goat, flockless, flightless — One lugnut goat. In the birth drawers,               blazes of bandicoots. And now, coming in threes by a flute of feathers, their tails               shades of peeled citrus. I am dinner in […]