Thursday, April 16, 2015

Noses in Spring


Her souped-up mirror shines
A little death in my ear
The size of a wish list;
There's no mall for that, no rat-

Faced amnesiac or
Furry friend to fend off
The curb of your slurp
(Do you know where your lips are?)

A city grows noses in spring
To bait your ennui
So fap to it or lose it, up a tree
Without a poodle

Don't gimme that
Charley-horse whinny
You know what fear brought:
A calendar home in disrepair

Whose teeth flunked out and got
Freaky on the god channel—
Oh yeah man, He was mad calm
And très debonair

Sunday, April 12, 2015

Spring Song


The deep red laugh of morning is lost
on the afternoon's hollowed-out shadow

souped up like a grave to make you
yawn and neighbor no further feather—

Don't buy that bull, go place an order
for whatever juices the sun applauds

in your voice's amnesia's endeavor.
Smother your echo in wet cement,

there to be merrily, merrily loved by
the dawn's early vocab forever.

Friday, April 10, 2015

Cloud Pleaser


Not every cloud is a pun to be unmasked
over the heads of unreliable witnesses.
Tell it to the sweetheart, judge. We're talking
weird of my couch's intransigence—

its question bedevils the hottest verb action
for whose sake one takes a walk
blind eyes shed fingerprints on.

Reduced to a skeleton mutiny, let's creep
out the wind no end, reading roughshod
all the way to the riverbank; let's defend
our pain from prick militias—

our bunker of saviors is kinda funny,
is indeed what makes the bomb so horny.

Forget money: I house my identity in my kiss,
asleep in the right direction, though I know
my freedom to see so makes me a meat
mistake, crying into my smile's hand.

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

POEM


Speech opens up finally, a rescue
worth risking—small blues find

their material. Nonsense is a bath
a body holds in its measure,

holding out a little for failures
I'm not seeing through.

Now begins to seem nothing less
than a call to smell forgettable

as questions rise on the move
my form makes from man to lunatic.

Monday, April 6, 2015

The Operative Word


There was a free way of thinking I read about
but never acted on, opting out for love
of the operative word that resides
wherever it's never found.

Saturday, April 4, 2015

Require Dreading


Feeling symbolic, my "I" is entangled in
ephemera, trailing it down the avenue

where the afternoon isn't absolving.
Nervously the wind wonders why

nothing I can see feels necessary.
The sun is obvious as a birth; what

follows me home is sheer malice,
held to be holy. As soon as it goes

I'll examine what's left of me, then
that'll be that: another day relieved

of importance, sent into exile from
all the words I'm afraid to know.