Thursday, March 6, 2008


TIDAL


Guide me through this open mouth, the tidal scream,

a gathering of waters here at the broken sore.

I am slick with algae, my arm is up-thrust,
I am a statue sunk to the bottom of this most available ocean, a convenient back-drop,
something to tell stories against.

I am the Roman, with nothing left in store.
I am the aqueduct that goes nowhere,

the barber with dull blades and the hot
smear of shaving cream and throats
that live to tell the tale.

I am the sliver on the ice-choked river, the clanking of loose change.
God, believe this:

I am you without a name.

Monsters