Thursday, July 31, 2008


PHOSPHOROUS HALO


humming my body
is humming my body is
humming cold angel

Wednesday, July 30, 2008


MIRROR


put out a silence

complete in its fullness
the
shadow of your last

Tuesday, July 29, 2008


ACCURSED TONGUE…


…always speaks its’ mind.
That’s part of the Money-Back Guarantee.
Do not taunt Accursed Tongue.
It’ll come back to bite you.
Do not try to second guess or use
reverse psychology on Accursed Tongue.
It’s up on the latest tricks.
Just sit still and bless your Maker
that Accursed Tongue doesn’t know
where you were born, cuz it would hunt
you down and burn you out from the roots,
motherfucker. Accursed Tongue
just wants to get along…

Monday, July 21, 2008


GERM OF MERCY


Tiny, imploded bloom.
Shrapneled petals.
Hands clasped asunder.
In our smiles are a
riotous extinction.
In our turning away, water
we cannot cross, though
our thirst for it saves us.
Your hand could be my hand,
but every palm opens empty.
What small mercy still
lends me something to say?

Tuesday, July 15, 2008


MOST WANTED


I stole that mustache off
the most wanted poster
and posed with a few pilgrims
along the way. I offered them
a salt tablet and a couple of
compromising positions
with their favorite mammal.
I opted out of the most basic line-up.
Y’know, the one where the monkey
standing next to you is the second-guess
fall guy in the evolutionary process,
stuck in an ill-fitting suit,
the short-straw in the mix.
He’s spun an empty chamber,
an itchy trigger-finger,
always on the draw.
He’s the studio audience,
laughing ahead of the curve, a little
too ready to turn the gun on himself.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008


BACK FROM THE DESERT


Toward such a thirst, you would not falter.
Toward such a thirst, you would not know.
A tongue makes for shaky infrastructure,
through the ellipse of your tunneled logic,
past a back narrative you hold tent stakes for.
It could move at a moment’s notice.
Fold it down. Repent. Reinvent.

Sunday, July 6, 2008


STRIKE


Bird song at dawn,
as militant as any
artillery strike, or
ham-strung symphony.

They gather their voices,
the night edges into
diffused blue. Who are we
to make any sense of it?

Thursday, July 3, 2008


BELIEF


Diligent into the sun we face
another evening’s gathered shade,
full of rain, pestilent whispering,
floods of solace we haven’t yet
learned to say…
To lean upon a cripple
at a cross roads, to have
his shadow point the way,
a sextant we cast to the ground,
hymnals we know by heart and flip
through their skin-lisping pages.
Oh belief, I am as far from you
as I am from sleep.
A silence turned over
for lack of a beginning, or end.