Friday, November 2, 2012

Final Choices

Madam of curious chaos,
you are concealed in hands
sliding through flesh estuaries.

The sea heaps its love on
as you roll with the tides,
beach and bleach.

You are the twin
that sank before you.

Evicted on the arduous
western shore, you recall
Asian palms, a woven prayer.

And at dusk, you eclipse
the artless, decaying stars.

Monday, March 19, 2012

oblique prayer

emma cannot be
she injects capacities
of life
hits back
in self destructive             exposé
over the edge
one hand irregular
in sorrow
her man
concerned about
her sanity
finds comfort in a bed
of differing          grace
emma worships him
with pure oxygen inhale
in the habit
of a nunnery

Monday, October 24, 2011

imprints from Rosewater

imprints from Rosewater
in the course of suspension
in the act of lowering
in the ritual that is burying

time becomes the staggered images
of someone else’s life, bleeding
frames over your bitter green.

everywhere you uncover
a double exposure;

the thought that you
have been them
have been caught

in a faultless Vonnegut jump
and broken over a Dali sunrise
to find Picasso reading the soft, wet
tea leaves in your evolving cup.

your fingers are pushing into
the clay of tomorrow’s dawn

remember me
call my name
one more time
define me
refine me
inter me

until the
  tock  ing
      tick  ing
hits the bedrock 
of unforgiv ing craft.

Friday, August 12, 2011

white noise from the world's stage

white noise from the world's stage

not remembering
the name of it
the title
the reward
the application
he puts it on
thinks it on
moves all his thoughts
to the place
that will be protected
he calls it
and it comes
to him alone
he speaks it
to any audience
that might find him
he waits
for the floods of winter
buries himself
in withered growth
an immersed rattle
she might return
this thought touching him
as a wisp of air
to his mouth
it keeps him alive
in the torpor of autumn
his heart
a geode
of undetected splendour
his future
an uncertain wish
of erosion
hoping that
a wild river
takes his words
to her ears

Thursday, July 28, 2011

any other road being the same

any other road being the same

outside a grainy wisdom,
the highway participates
in a penciled regression
between covers
yet to be found.

in Brando white,
there is a simple plan
under the guise
of eastern routes.

something spills from the head.

travels become
inked in the flesh.
Charley knew.

and Sal left his sweat
on the fortunate mile
that ended it all.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Ivor and Leslov

Ivor and Leslov

Ivor and Leslov face each other
over hot coffee.
They talk with urgency
and no little substance.

Ivor says, “No, no!  It wasn’t like that at all!
There was snow that year
and the roads closed. 
We had to sleep in
the railyard.  Don’t you

Leslov shakes his head. “No, no!
You are wrong.  It was the year
the year Marika began coughing blood
and poor little Istvan was lost
in the North Woods.
Anyway, you were deep in the vodka then,
how could you
any of this.”

A slide of disgust.
A glance of mistrust.
And finally, the slight twitch that says,
“Yes, yes.  We know each other
 far too well.”


The raising of mugs.

  you have to forget.
  it’s best to let go.

Dearest Isabel

Dearest Isabel,
I am in the tarnish of cloud we sought.
I am walking in the graveyard
along the sea.  I wander only the edge
where the questionable are buried,
their bones crumbling at the same rate as
the nuns resting higher up;  Sisters
cradled together in encouraged sisterhood,
seeking to define viewpoint even in death.

There are no postcards to send from here,
no tiny stones to pick up and send to you, my
Dearest Isabel, only this small vial of soil for
  your art
    your life
      your breath.
Though you disappear for years at a time,
there is no one who knows me
in the hidden ways you do
in my tarnish of cloud,
Dearest Isabel.