Leafless branches bloom
silver-lit raindrops at night
just a passing fruit

The moist lip of spring
fresh magnolia blossoms
beneath the street light

The gibbering beast
outside: just a cat in heat
or my own worst thoughts?

Train’s lonely whistle
rides the mist @ 2 AM
closer than it seems

Misty halo moon
black tree branches’ tendriled scrawl
flock of geese sing past

Sunset skyscraper
sends a gleaming path across
the river to me

Seagull reels through mist
river buoy flashes red
rain speckles my sight

Perigee full moon
a white, blazing gaze stares down
close as it will come

BESEECH

Oh, the various & virulent spirits we beseech!
We make faces into the great unknown, & hope
the cutting edge of our smile is immortal...

After Japan

My friend asked me for a prayer of peace
but I can’t give words to contain such suffering
and everything I offer is less…

Jet squalls past above
turning the night inside out
I still watch TV

Headlights seen through mist
like choreographed rain drops
lit up as they fall

Riverside oil tanks
grey against a fog-grey sky
the day is fading…

Sidewalk newspaper
pages flipping in the wind
no one to read it

Suburban Haiku

motion sensor light
this privileged motherfucker
has a sudden stage

DRACONIAN ERROGENOUS ZONES…

…have been established throughout the city,
hoping to defuse the current social climate
with a self-activated shame cycle, accomplishing
what tear gas and a reflexive leaden thumb could not.
We ask you to examine your own bodies, and their
corrosive agenda of base desires, and wonder
if you don’t come up short. Further, we ask
if a loop can be established, a closed circuit,
between achieving those desires and the white noise
we are currently funneling into your subconscious.
In conclusion: What if Play Time was Work?
What if we could make you strike against yourselves?
What if love was the inverted spearhead
that ended the heart?

Sirens rend the night
dark windows splashed in red light
some stranger’s problems

Flash from my window
rumble through the whirling white
that was Thundersnow!

the hawk lands heavy
before taking off again
empty oak branch thrums

Snow falls in Bushwick
M-train rattles overhead
sparks and snowflakes mix

another late night
moon muddled through windowpane
I should be asleep

My glass is half full.
I don't remember drinking.
This is not my glass.

(Poem by Doug Roussin)

I saw the future
my friends were busy texting
I was left speechless

APPLY THEME

Rampant Tenderfoot
Current Protector
Inaccurate Lingo
Leisure Removal
Forward Thinking
Ash and Fire
Ash and Fire
Ash and Fire
Dark Wood
Deep Ocean
Magic Paper
Drinking DNA
Black and White
and Red All Over…

WHITE MILK SUBSTITUTE

Am I a shadow of a man if I cast none of my own?
Are we the sum and total of eight essential ingredients,
minus emotional baggage and excessive wear and tear?
If we can split the atom, the logic goes, we should be able
to gut the infidel and point his entrails to
True North. We should be able to find ourselves
on the face of the compass, by the bias of magnetism
alone. I’m all for short term myths, but we’ve
got to get the order forms right. One slip can lead
to a simple paper cut, which in turn could lead tothe slow, onion-like unraveling of my cover identity,
and since I don’t go much further than skin deep,
that’s not a view I want to keep.

INCOMING FEVER DREAM

The eyes may play tricks,
but the mind’s got its’ games
rigged; one way in, many ways
out, and it’s up to individual
participants to rend the veil,
to ignore the hallways filled
with unemployed centaurs
and harlots, the avatars being
stripped of their momentary mantles,
crucibled in fire and restarted again.
What is really real is really
not the point. It’s how you
navigate the system.
It’s your fever. It’s your verdant
forest to burn to the ground.
We supply matches, blowtorches,
even premium vintage napalm.
One way in, many ways out.
Proceed.