Rain stains the window in darkness pinging hard against the glass
while swirls of energy rail over the roof like sponges at dawn
claiming the night's heirs from their own songs, the coastal dunes
reline these grassy knolls into their own eminent strains of being
distances between nothing and nothing else remain
strong along the tide's lining of the hollow core of the margin's
lane among trees on their sides and piles of vegetable ruin
where the open hours reside inside green and blue again.
clung along these leftovers at the edge of this plain next to another
plane of gray against a gray which is not the same, but moving forward
among what's been left by a continent straining toward completion
in hourly dimensions leaning left and forward in one motion.
been the page itself whose words were grains of sand winding
among untitled monuments the wind whistling against your face,
stinging rows incite the sense of standing in the face of nothing
which is the nature of your sign and gesture along the arcade.
chaos un-tamed by what's been the light source itself,
song, movement and time collide against the tides moving one on one
as unconverted remains strewn beside tire prints from big trucks
as the feet of angels trail beside the forward constancy of motion
thought in its similarities toward a recognition of air
and color specific in the charges laid against unknown
substances striking your face and hands like unwelcome dinners
set around the table with no one in mind and then abandoned.
become me in this haven the elements deny themselves,
disorder remaining in its own destination from the center
blazing inside itself like a sign and outpost of the known
into location and faction torn from time and the space it has.
series of accidents, a series of mistakes belittle your witness
what cascades across the margin's opening in the darkness of the storm
and call you down into the origin of a safety you think surrounds
your partitions, called by the name you give doubt in its own term.
wound betrays your stasis, walls moving in the sand beneath
your feet seem pulled down into the water, clams swimming
beneath your stains of sand, billowing inert forces penetrating light—
the door is open and calls you to enter into your own destiny.
is the hour at hand, the blast from the black edge of the world
inhabits your own unknown hand, hesitant on these keys
at best believing you stand and hold what's been ignored too long,
a sentinel at the peak of the house relives your building and song,
the dizzying spin of thought's storm become a wandering tide
the loom and weft of open powers ride this hour in giving
anchor and palm their own distance rising throughout the wind's hour
thrown among the rolling dreams which come against your thoughts;
broad gust reams the window tight against its frame and juncture
in the night's beating streams and shores flat and firm along the way,
scheming in between what's known and what's not and then dreamed away
too soon to leave and too late to cry a silent prayer into the graying
They drop a rubber ball through small net-covered hoops at either end
and flow back and forth with pure juice and determination unseen before,
holding themselves above the play of forms and sentences we call a book
nor left among other stars where the beaches erode and foam away at night.
line grows in front and then out extends into the unwinding sea
a grid into unknown darkness filled with organisms and breaths
coming as they do from interior marks along the floor and ceiling,
an incandescence creates a pathway into structure and form like memory.
called me down from silence through unbroken layers of roots
between what is above and what lies beneath your heart's feet
along a wash of light and time coming through the tide again
to mark the mind of your dream like blue and green and red mists.
forgotten density of remove and stain neither clears the air
nor calms from beneath what cannot be removed nor claimed from
any other line along the sand inside your hand yet not recalled nor left
behind in the hurry to get from this precarious layer to a place of safety.
barrier the pinpoints in the sky through empty dark ceiling,
reliquary to air's dominion in the discourse of the heavens and the line
along which no transparency folds or spasms into something new and fine.
Longer signs enfold and eclipse yet call you forward here at the margin.
Axe no dendrite plain and simple struts these after hours
intense emptiness of forgetfulness strikes you in the wind
swirling off the sand looking like fog that blinds your eyes
foam of the hour curling less remote than the distance ahead.
no hopeful truth its own dominion present in your heart
another rope to the infinite which calls you forward again
leaning throughout your memory’s time like a trimming
or a loot on the plane of insignificance you call your own days
your own dishonor came too soon to be recognized for what it was
a silent edge on the mirror of forgiveness, your own face unrecognized
by the followers behind you crowding up into the figment of the mass
which is no other than your other breaking into a billion future scenes
blood on the sands of the hallway, imperial magnificence a stolen bribe
and the raw meat of the sacrifice clings to the rug in the upper corridor
where silent weepers hug the wall without sound or pity in their quiet
houses of the holy abandoned and then reground by the stones of time
edge and screen, no specific moment stands out, yet the scene recalls
what it is in the name of silence a matter misting outward calls again
your colors red and blue and green an invention of sky's mind
which flames and flutters its film among the plenty of the hours.
dawn: no end:
glen and glade,
wan and woe,
wed a weed, o dew. . .
lack, o knead,
o leaden wand,
go on, now: a ledge,
and down we go —
a new deal, no?
In Silent Pre
dawn youth hair
visible under street
light leaning out
door of van drops
bundle of news
i, a beast of habit,
exist in a stable nexus:
i haunt this table,
i sit in a bath,
i hustle i bustle i lust,
i inhale, i exhale,
i beat an exit in the heat,
i hunt lint, i bleat. . .
it's a thin tune —
a lean tale, built in haste —
it isn't able, hasn't the silt —
i hate it!
as a late aunt saith,
"best be late than last" —
then she set the axe
as the hex bit.
if you go
and you fear their
Dow could scald,
tell 'em all hoopla,
stoking chatter filler,
Go ask phallus
when it's tending
He looked at me fright-thighed
and vainly said,
"Am I screwed
In fealty to our dime,
we cannot tolerate their rind.
The royalty in our spine
can't exonerate their reduction.
We will re- vive.
Invincible City of Dog Food
stereotype is the nauseating improbability
of dying." —Roland Barthes
harboring unresolved armor
at the top of the stairs
as a way to stimulate burrowing phobia
the virility of a stolen god
face it: you're going to die
out back in a weedy mud puddle
the same as everyone else
what good is running away
to other people's nestled clearings
essence of putrefaction
what good are four-wheeled i.d.s
to prove to oneself there's some
added fancy reinforcement
won't make the dog food any tastier
where sketchy green crops hold out arson
The Birth of the Evil Boxes
than the great'st infection
That e're was heard or read!" —Shakespeare
it was essential the People's Republic of China
makes mine workers let go
clemency in darkness to clarify
the complexity of careful examination
like taking candy from a baby
like Faroyar ram on blue shield
bringing into the light
authenticity splattered to the first heaven
compact serene dungeon
picking a shopping-center-in-pasture
so astonishingly intricate and varied
so intensely strict that royalty
agrees it would be nice to move somewheres else
out where heterosexuals
know why the early bird catches the worm
the new downtown shopping mall is amazing.
so many avenues for walking and for looking in-
to and visiting philharmonics and clowns
celebrate the brand names
that marry us—
mutual of america! general electric! united artists!
we believe the invitations, that we will save and save
while skeptics bankrupt
then, is our major industry—
grand openings, going out of business galas
and the best ever easter parade—
the family can window shop all day long
and, whenever they want, go home
it's only god's confetti.
solitary, wrinkled and beggarly
ulysses returned to ithaca.
his trip was no bargain,
the small print a king-sized
arrow on the installment plan
the courtyard unlaces its hospital gown.
a reticent breath, almost ancient,
stirs the maple trees
miles of snowmelt, arms and legs
carving new angles of meaning—
the vendor, chiseled into the coming night,
passes a last newspaper over the barrier—
a rusty, waffled sign lets go its grinding fist
and falls, missing someone by inches
tradition became a sickbed,
food was brought in
usually through the nerves,
the patchwork was internalized
as the next modern man
when you're sitting around sometimes
you have thoughts.
someone once observed that the supremely crafted poem
and the supremely improvised one
are identical, that perfect spontaneity
makes perfect sense.
I'd say they are not the same, though pretty close.
each extension wears the mud of its pathway.
I think I know what I'm talking about.
have you ever seen a cat with her litter
suddenly bite the annoying one?
it's a painting