Sunday, March 29, 2015

It Took Forever to Get Here

And here is where the ground is soaked
with a new kind of estrangement.

Perhaps it was foolish to resist
the air's living ear—

obtaining a slice of its aura is a privilege
limited to those "in the know."

Those in the snow just ignore it, focus instead
on their lines of credit.

We do like a bit of cuteness, so long as it
doesn't abscond with our language too literally.

Great balls of silence! Check out the abs on that soda.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Future You

refused to dematerialize. How hungry was the mnemonic
morning after—it came spilling in from every window

irreverently. It was more than the mere doing
of an uncouth youth; it was a need to exist

allusively. It fizzled out, then promptly retraced
its steps into the blackboard eraser in which

this dream is embedded: We're having a drink in a bar,
as friends, but when I turn away, you silently slip

your arm around my waist. Shocked awake,
I'm a character again, artificially unsavory.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

East of Pluto

Amid the sky's deregulation, my passivity began to be indulged in. To find footing solid enough to read by seemed a too moony pursuit for words. Not that we weary agents of biology minded, not at all. In fact we liked it that way, the way of all flesh. I almost got famous adapting it for the screen. 

Watch out! Yelp reviews are rolling in, and they don't look good for the gastropub, to name but one disappointment among the many we, the unofficially bereaved, occupied in memory of adolescent appetizer days. Beige was a popular color that year, as usual; practically every state recognized it, took it under its wing. Then,

in a flash and a puff of smoke, an anonymous source erected a chocolate abatis in front of a grand piano army—to dignify our heavenly anarchy, some felt. But not all! "You may already be unborn," announced the imperial press release. At once we fell to bedding each other, languidly but rigorously, like writing a paper. No one ordered us to, we just took the liberty.

Monday, March 16, 2015

The Perilous Night

In the movies, the Wurlitzer seduces the howitzer,
but how often does real life redeem this?

I've been told to limit my remarks on this topic;
they all but swallow themselves, anyhow.

No wonder word-peddlers more notorious than I
are "wont" to "ply" their "wares" in my "vicinity."

It's not unreasonable to dismiss them as mere actors,
sad strivers with no more relevance to

our scrambled lives than the cloud I halved
and exposed for your viewing pleasure

one fine morning, long ago. Still, it never
hurt anyone to call for a stiff drink to go

along with a proportionately stiffer breeze.
You must sit as still as you can then,

yet take care never to get anywhere
in regard to the big questions:

The chicken is reluctant to surrender
documents the egg deems essential to its case.

Once again, without consulting me,
dusk is out the door, getting busy.

My thought-bubbles gurgle. Time is ticked off.
In some suburban driveway, a dog parks.

Monday, March 9, 2015

Watchful Whispering

Feminize the clock if it needs it, then inhale.

Later on (the best time of day), we'll have other
bodacious disarmaments to look forward to:

doodled maps of digital neuropathies
raised up as art.
                             And with pleasures like those,
who needs signature moves? This question begs itself

not to linger too long in the threshold between us;
no need to fear another untenable sleep
from which to wake into a catastrophe

different from the one you'd hoped would compose you.

No, all the time in the world doesn't begin
to enclose such a stubborn infinity. Yes,
reinforcements are on the way, memories
marching to a tune as urgent as a feather

floating on the atom-scattering breeze
that sent your unbound biography scudding away.

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

The Itch

I sat drinking sadness at an outdoor cafe
In philosophical Europe
The ogre of love approached my table
It had four legs (the table)

I wasn't in the mood for a lecture
Having just attended one
On the subject of microtelepathy
(The reading of tiny minds)

Also I had an itch the size of a couch
Whose location I couldn't place
So just to be safe
I scratched my whole body

"Let me guess, it didn't work"
Said the ogre, loving all over me
"Let me scratch you . . . metaphorically"
I wasn't in the mood for metaphor

So I put on the scowl of the century
And left before the ogre
Could say any words to me
In terms of wisdom or whatever

At that point I was ready
For another madcap adventure
But then I decided
That would be "pushing it"

Instead I just walked and felt existential

Friday, February 27, 2015

Breaking Emergency

Our view of the Alps presented itself
like an orangutan's inflamed pudenda.

Downwind of all that, a sad last gasp
of the galaxy's huge agenda

stood as a monument to our works.
My imaginary wife put it this way:

"Let's ditch this morbid atmosphere
and hitch a ride with Paul Revere."

I could see her point, and many others.
I saw the point of basketball, and of hoop earrings,

and how the two are related—how nice!
Then I surfaced from the jellied sea of time,

only to be reborn as an electron on the lam.
Thanks for that are due on Monday, so come

here and help me get down and debunked
before my faculties expel me.

Thursday, February 26, 2015

Ways Away

Early one evening we parted company
at a junction of diverging dialects.

Forgetting how to speak wasn't easy
until the speeding traffic did it for us.

Assured of death's promise to endorse
the remainder of our happiness,

we strode into perfect silence.
Tomorrow's static turned erratic.

Its weather, childlike, was barely credible;
it taught us dissipation, indelible.

Monday, February 23, 2015


Tickle your ideology; you never know what mutant futures may come tumbling out. To wit: A woman polishes off a banana post-apocalyptically. She wants what it represents (success in business). Yes, it's tempting to insert one's own innocence into this ribald narrative, but that's when the death of history wakes up on the wrong side of the bed and cries, "Tag! You're it."

Friday, February 20, 2015


A selfless plunge into desuetude is a form of self-defense, but try explaining that to your desire to be used. Nothing matters, so it might as well matter anyway. This is why solitude eludes me when I'm alone; longing my way out of time, I'm yoked to its endearments. Memory won't shut up, but its echo says what I want to hear.

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

On Second Thought

One unreliable minute later, the captive disquiet
I was nursing a little too lovingly for mixed company
took a breather—took it too far, in fact, before any
new feeling like home could be brought to bear.

A swelling of dead-eyed absence began to tell,
in tones of majestic indifference, the origin story
of our smoothed-over tacit agreement, abandoned
when duty called to say I love you. How artless

the whole thing was, remember? It was beyond nature,
lacking only an answer to what might have been but wasn't
reeled in in time or pulled from the proper context to be.
So there you were, clutching a highly specific detail,

under orders to keep moving. Stumbling on this torrid scene,
or slinking away from it (same difference), one may yet
see the point of its deliberately flimsy construction,
the beauty of a forgetfully imminent collapse.

Friday, February 13, 2015

Hurricane Placenta

Rinse a nonstick Neanderthal and watch his head get examined
per the advice of a statuesque actuary, duly hirsute,

aboveboard to the utmost, almost a lamppost. But wait—
I didn't say "Simon says." I did hold my head high

in a last-ditch chipmunk's boudoir ambience; my
fever was beached there, whipped into wrinkles by

decisive greenery, a climate curated in a belief no
soon-to-be-jizzed-on jam band was more than sweet

revenge for. The bachelorette was out of smokes—sad enough
in happier times, downright laundered to shreds in these.

What's needed on the record's an omission of whatever
one is, in ham-handed retrospect, most proud to regret.

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Unforced Marches

Destiny tends to ship out before it shapes up,
leaving nothing to chance, least of all the
harrowing stares one can't help disowning
in the natural course of a drowsy commute.

The end is insight, that fatuous old news.
Any leftover magic you'd like to unload
may cost more than mobilizing in support of
your least ideal metric of success is worth
once your silence's essential truth is exploded.

Now there's a freak accident I can get behind,
miming an act of footsie as I go; all night I
imagine myself into a more flattering forecast
spun out in lieu of a sight best left unseen.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Sucked Dust

Relax while you can, married to a good score
for yielding temporality, durably alone
in palpably overripe malaise—
the kindest ever, according to a pleasure
I never heard of until it pleased the court
to drink from a tainted well, the better to
surprise us, getting a jump on our own
escalating drama, the sheer scale
of which was nearly embalming,
yet gave hope to the frowning millions
asleep in their cribs. Word came
that slipping under the prevailing
wind went a panoply of colorless fears.
All new motion was suspended, sold off
in harmonic virulence, the pretty past
setting out to prove itself; enter the
shattered class and take a seat.