Saturday, February 27, 2010

Return to Sender

Remember that the end is built in,
Not derived from any senses, but
The end of any sense at the expense
Of an experience. Everything else
Comes from chance encounters, chance
Flounders when it comes to expectation.
The lick of an envelope, shoved into a box
To be sent off elsewhere, where it will be
Received by a less excited party, to then
Get thrown with everything else that’s
Been sitting on the counter. It envelops
Space, until eaten by a can, where forgotten
Materials enjoy the sunlight from the top
Of the trash mountain. Burns in an explosion
Sending off fresh embers. New suns, which
Revisit with a stamp saying return to sender.
Remember, that the end is built in. No accident
That you can’t encourage a greater difference.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Thank you James

Two pills:
the pain of birth
the tear in two
the litter bug nun
to shrug it all off
and a pony to boot.
High nine, a cloud ride.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Blood Orange

She drew a picture of a blood orange, said
sliced, this is your entirety, visibly awake
and blinks in threes. Visibly awake, and misses
something. But inside, unpeeled, waits a squishy
wheel in constant spin. It does not need its other
end. It does not need to stop again. It only needs
a color such as this, to be squeezed and squeeze
and spit seeds into a bin. Spits a sour drop into
a shattered glass and begs and begs for another
passing comment about what an orange is, and
everything that center could possibly have meant.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Un titled

I don’t wanna know what goes on in that ol’ fish bowl.
I don’t even wanna think about the drink, some mix of
beta, gold, iridescent of the overhead lights hung low. Swirls
of small waves. Stunts, only cheap escapes. Motherless conception, at best.
I do wish the ocean held your eyes, and the reflection of
a slow rise on a bitter orange morn. Vast enough to yearn for more.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010


What lack a melody
words. Words kick it
pattern like on tarp.

Foreskin rug of bliss
Wish I hadn't. Hadn't
gotten smoked alone.

Let in wish kin two
brothers bone. Step
back back towards.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

dog god is a sunset god is a

dog god is a sunset god is a little old lady god is flower god is

god dog is a good dog no matter what the color dog is flower

is largely nocturnal and only where populations are relatively

high does one see them frequently in the daytime rarely one

getting fat is the common name for any large member of a family

of rodents the best choice for a new roommate for an adult male

on fire i'll be camping with no circus what's the buzz exclusive

reports gadafy's big tent is no circus august 8 not worth purchasing

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

And that has made no difference

On a back porch lit by embers

a tree tilts and splinters with a

whip-crack of drums on bark.

Wolves decide quietly, instead

devour dinner under a shady canopy,

which soaks street lights up like a cotton

shirt does blood. Hark, a soft thought

littered rises and sways: in what way does

wind wisp old leaves away, wipe

roads clean of any ambiguous destination?

Might we travel together down all

trails, tread long laughs as a quarter

in motion lands on both heads and tails?

Or would wizened women and men

run headlong backwards towards themselves

for mere instant gratification, list worries

and regrets upon a napkin folded in small doses,

clean messes made when minds spill over

from too much dwelling on empty spaces.

Between bare limbs, arms outstretched across oceans

of brown grass, a sliver of hope diverges.

A vessel sits void of any intimate urges.

Take the latter, forget the former. These thoughts

will only assassinate, as if time lasts forever.