Halcyons

No abstinence left could prevent this.
Though separate we abut, adjoining homes
or at least our lots are touching. What
caution now but to prevent this the burning
at both ends of this, both doors out.

Vortex

VIbrant tones, this is not a poem
about the changing leaves of Autumn.
Is about the lonesome things up
-ended in a local storm, a very
local storm.

Condensed

As a boy composed of both
is worth. Currently is
upswelling upon a constant
stream, bouyed up by Saturn
(apparently). Composite of two
Matriarchies, lifting on the bottom
of a surface built of I-beams
and steel bolts that maybe are
these women condensed,
crystalline in structure when together.

Hurtling

Laying sidelong in a ditch
and comforting in pitchy briars.
At least fire can't eat this
cherubic child, but I can.

The crown of his head
susceptible to large talons.
His hands and feet curled
in the exhale of a large yawn.

And if I ate it, I'd eat it
and ravage the fit of eating
and live a little longer for it.

And if I the child I would
fight for life from giant jaws
or scalpel-like knife.

A pile of old Harpers Bazaars
as a pillow; the plasticized paper
is oxidizing and the joints are
inoperable in wrinkled atrophy.

My being sewn by the pitch
to the dirt on either rising side
slope. The running past me
feather-touch of drainage.

The futurist sense of being
on the edge of something moving
quickly, exciting toward it's quarry
in the white torrents of a river.

a Life Bisected

When we said "Some of this will
lessen us," this is what we meant.

The curlycues of floridness, self
importance, and strange lexical

choices; and leaves a big piece
missing. The man that is bisected

putting putty on both of the flat sides,
but for some gyration, comes together.

And has a horrible scar across his
belly button, that is gnarled and

dark brown and purple. His lover
long abides with it. And he leads

a mostly normal life after it happens.

a Life Bisected

When we said "Some of this will
lessen us," this is what we meant.

The curlycues of floridness, self
importance, and strange lexical

choices; and leaves a big piece
missing. The man that is bisected

putting putty on both of the flat sides,
but for some gyration, come together.

And has a horrible scar across his
belly button, that is gnarled and

dark brown and purple. His lover
long abides with it. And he leads

a mostly normal life after it happens.

I'm Too Fat

The middle not thin enough
and does know the same difference
of self thickness of the middle holding
hating for itself, though inculcated.

Of the bottlekneck and basin we
knew this much. And the invitation
to hotel penthouses because one's
long hair that did what it wanted.

Because the greater height means girth
and soft features soften. And brie too,
and emulsion. And halogen excruciates
and not excoriates but lightens.

Love's Comeuppance

Not touching what some sinews
left as if an accident made this.

One series of hairs on a palm
back are more increasingly

disturbed and a habit forms;
stood valiantly up and then

stopped standing for that straining
reason, laid silent and glistened.


Solitude in love's comeuppance
as thin rivulets come together

and diverge again, or one
merges with other and loses it.

Green Endive

I am from whence a valance descends
and am that decorative contrivance
of earnesty.

Honesty thence that's not cognizant
of the light that a valance doesn't hold
back.

Now enter lack to the cautious abundance
of first harvest that not assuredly
but

may be enough to keep us. New shoots
of green endive that want to be
whiter.

Commuting

With all the expanses of an organelle,
how much of the world can one know?

Even the flagella in a whirlygig of locomotion
know the distance in the two and a half

dimensions between two flashes of flinty glass.
Relationally; the distance from Boston

to the Nile: forty-eight hundred miles
if the head exploded to selenian sizes.

And why trek for single cell all those miles
why plastered on the surface or insides

as if the viral syringe of the corpus thats
a modified and overactive podus makes

the decision.

Concretism

What the luminous did to the already lit
oversought articles justified by that lux
in the night and chill winds, cut doubly.

What brutalist architecture of the heart
built up. Pockets risen to the surface of the concrete
finally unjustified when brought to light, and accepted.

Un-as in this life; towering monuments of short-sight
failing to recognize what sapiens sapiens delight in

the quietude of that soft and comely light.

ad Astra per Panton

Uproariously, too; as the small skein
of a faggot that's a fasces burns up.

Or the eight spoked wheel turns
and heats, and in it's turning melts.

Or the serpent that is us upon a caduceus
slips down the shaft and swiftly slithers.

Everything that is the flailing symbology
or that hesitantly turns on monogamy

or does undo this; the locks and chains
upon every verdegraaft, invisibly. Ad

astra per panton.

My Bicycle

I will carry the bicycle and not
ride it, any of the time. And
"none of this is coming together."
None of the watery chemicals or
diuretic cram for the passage.

I have a multitool that I got
as a Christmas gift once. Wind:
allen wrench; you: phillips; me:
some bulky needle with the eye
in it's tip, and flathead, and little wrench.

I have thread, many gauges of twigs
in a little case that could as easily
be found along any of the roadsides of this
country; all for the maintenance
of this bicycle, the contrivance.

I do not have but can imagine
a magical motor for pushing on the gravity
and keeping your machine aloft while mines carried.
I have a black neoprene facemask for cutting the wind.
I have a little fabric bag of extra buttons.