Monday, June 30, 2014


Abiding in a casual perfectionism
Obtuse in its leanings, these fraught dimensions
Try an interlocutor's rapt inattention
To the horizon's fixed belief as it advances and recedes,
Kisses and bleeds; the virtue here is a shout
That tumbles into a dance of ruin
High above alerted plains, where one may enact
No more precise a move than a drive to inspect
What sudden insight spares, smudged
Almost to the point of legibility
In a chromatic moment's cascade.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Ducks and Drakes

Private and confidential, the river allegedly flows. I sit on it
almost attractively, on assignment from a shade of blue
no one has seen since the Goldilocks administration.

A perfect lonesomeness acts as its own attorney here,
where scraps of advice via nocturnal barns bend the wind
back to something of its former glory. You blow it when you see it . . .

And now you don't, erased from the face of the afternoon
as soon as you laughed through it. That's what the sun means
when it dances around the question, "Is a memory's vacancy

roomy enough when the future's full?" Still, some brazen sighs
moisten the graves they inhabit. I've heard their low-slung odes,
listened with ears of melting stone, and nodded off.

Thursday, June 5, 2014

Lemonade's Last Stand

Chillaxing on the border between morbid curiosity and lexicographical
Our intention is to create a mixed-use facility: in one corner, for kids, a little
          tooth-sharpening area;
In the solarium, a fountain of boiling butter (let your imagination wander). For
          the sake of historical accuracy,
History teachers have been fed to wild fauna. The president has been notified

And winterized. Seagulls are returning to the rodeos they'd abandoned. (Their
Are almost too funny.) Having lived for years under the shadow of this cryptic
Meant to convey something like "horny cops on lookout for runaway
          greenhouse effects,"
I find it helpful to imagine myself the curator of a vast, open-air museum of
          noble but discarded sentiments.

Less civic-minded folk will no doubt balk at my escutcheon of pretense, but
          that's where
You, the reader, come in, wearing your doomsday best. The fact you're reading
          this at all is proof
I'm alive and going about the dark hebdomadal business of facial-hair care, quite
          against my will.
If you've ever occupied an ounce of daylight, you know what I mean, and why.
          Scary times, and yet

The rain is wet and making do with much √©lan, in spite of growing doubts about
          its motives.
Dare we contemplate another Muscatine misadventure, or shall we disgruntle
          the lullaby of spring
We used to know by heart and challenge all comers? I'm not your maid, nor your
But I could use some shut-eye before the next exquisite summer decides to