Friday, March 14, 2008
INSTRUCTION PSALM
It’s all in the way you point your hunger.
What do you taste more now--blood, or the acrid blanch of certain oxides?
The rise of satellites is intrinsically tied to the deepening roots of gene-spliced tubers.
The underage cocktail waitress showing some cleavage understands herself as well
as an abandoned mine-field does.
The terror of the obsolete grows in every organism.
Remember your first test paper?
Filling in the blanks?
One hesitant scratch of graphite
across a long white field.
Your guess is as good as mine.
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CIVILIZATION AND ITS’ DISCONNECTS Turn off your computer. I know, I know. I will cease to exist. I will return to my cave of shadows, ha...
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BACK IN BROOKLYN… The latticed chain-link casts its’ shadow and the gods skip a shallow grave. Zeus ran a moving business on 4th ave, but ...