the Outward Throne

The Outward Throne
of lapis and thorn

Is full of our own
envy and comeliness.

Is it sufficuent, now
seven times repented for

That on earth
we found true north

Along our
every border

Bleached Bones

Saturday the plain
White bones own

Calcium deposits said
"Ho, ho. Stop it." and,

"Stop this promotion."
This agitated heart

In motion. Bearing
Intimate emotions daily.

Just stop it. Stop
It. Oh God, it.

A Wallet, Found

In my e-mail late today,
A message sent through

Great delay: A wallet,
found! A cursed thing

That should rebound
upon my house. Is

it an omen of the future?
What else could bring

That putrefaction?
It's set in motion

The grinding wheels, all
Grating zeal, to

Denigrate my centrist
Lust for simple certainty.


Either way; it's set to
Stay upon my mind.

And on my bookcase, lest
It loose another set of cards.

[Whiling away the hours]

Whiling away the hours
The underwater powers don't

Keep a floating head
Above the waters.

Despite the strength
Of lighter gasses

The rising turgid sludge,
It passes down the line

The weight and meter
Of the feeder, upriver

Like jingling keys
Along greased splines.


The weight that has
Been meted out was

No equity. And hence
Propound the piling

On top of ready piles,
Ready piles on the ground.

It's all around here
Now. It's ailing, aiming down.

the Outward Throne

The Outward Throne
of lapis and thorn

Is full of our own
envy and comeliness.

Is it sufficent—now
seven times repented for—

That on Earth,
if we regroup to play

Between vain types
and fey surprise

We can come to a
realization

Something imminent
and innate?

You've

Climbed into the incendiary-
Rent holes of this world.

Looking for a place to
Crawl into, big enough—

Just—for you and you alone.
Or you, and someone else,

If the need should arise.
And you're alive, or barely

Alive, but who amongst
Us can claim that life?

[The maximum—or to]

The maximum—or to
Hit on, like Longinus

With his stiff prong—
Of military rising?

Confining the world
To it's extent, and little boys'

Accompaniment. If down
Then down with politic.

[What if the issue]

What if the issue
Of photography is.
and is almost.

Splaying and faking:
No one is making
a concerted effort

Juggling the equation
With the obsessions
of the people behind it,

These are our individual issues
Take a lathe to it
the photograph is

Spherical
And is
only a tool.

Sacrifice

Hand on the soft pilot.
That clammy, thwarted mountain

Burned of all it's precious balance.
Let me put it another way:

Get in my way and I'll kill you.

Urgency

Urgency, as in
Front lines

Which supplies
Refresher sights:

Ordinary people
Doing their jobs.

It's necessary.
I'm grateful.

I don't.

[Parking lot, after lot]

Parking lot, after lot
After lot.

Somehow they say to me:
"We are your sons and daughters.

Our expanses are your legacy."
Every day they say to me:

"Brush off your snow."
Before the stain sets.

The Winter and Our Escape

Oh Hannah! Bend low,
And supplicate the road

The simple asphalt road
Is what your fetid presence goads.

Prepare to go.
You bag is not half-full.

The growing masses don't
know the shoulder's pull

The outdoors' cold is still,
Don't know the road.

The Oppurtunity
To read fables,

Having a similar viewpoint
On differnet content.

An accidental
Use of the Bible

While on the Hill,
—in the hard-pact outdoor chill,

There is a sort of code
—a finite skill.

Threre is a thrill
To the Main Road.

the Crawlspace

The little space
beneath the floor

full of dust
and autumn leaves

blown in hard
by absent winds

through the broken
cellar door.