Monday, November 07, 2005

ideas of falling unfold methodically

Ideas of falling unfold methodically.

In the city, a system enacts itself, cleverly without language.
Crows gash the aggressive air, unrelenting fabric.

High flat sun. Their shadows create Venn diagrams of something
best left unspoken. When they falter, the world breaks in.

I keep my cursive longingly to my heart; my caesuras barren. We
distract ourselves, and play coy with slicing poor fingers as
markers of progress, insight.

Crows beat against the hordes of clouds. This elemental rejection
enlivens them, quickens their elegance.

Soon a copse of elms peels itself upward. Wearily you might sit,
desiccated rubble sharp beneath your heels. Narrow leaves
present an index of the city.

Searing sweet irruption, our city lights itself at night—neon sign tumescent.
Pulsing with. They twist their reflections, their images in televisions.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005



I have heard “mourir c’est facile.”
That, really, we’re about specificity, relevance.

But tonight, as usual, we’ve become
diffused: nothing held long & tender.

Quite honestly, I am not sure where
this will go, to what quiet wrecked end

or crowded edge it will find itself.
Technically, thoughts are subcutaneous,

so I’ve read. “Actually, even astronomical
systems suffer drag and tidal friction.”

Nobody feels this, so why say “suffer”?
Perhaps it’s a caress.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

epistle three

Dear Trevor,

you may try but will
not at will banish
the fact of rain
nor discourage the sound
it makes - humming, buzz,
drone in my bones
that piggish truth of existence
what will not outlive the
duration of my senses?
consider the motion a mouth makes,
searching for its floundering counterpart
a flurry of motion like
some thing trying to die
a scream becomes the logical
extension of your voice, reducing things
to objects in a mirror
until only a spiny core remains
to speak of the human body and not
to speak of the human body
look skyward, poet,
imagine death and her rewards


Saturday, April 09, 2005

Becoming a thing of quiet


Becoming a thing of quiet
is always a tender chance;
Our skin, tendons, bones, and teeth
hum loud with temerity.

True, I’ve lost my trust in songs.
Hakuin, quitting his life,
wrote only one character.
This was expeditious, sure.

So, thank you for the concession.
It slowly and quietly bruised.
Tonight, I’ll forbid talking,
And map out silent things.


Thursday, February 17, 2005

there are certain concessions

dear Trevor,

there are certain concessions
i am willing to make.  this music
could be a voice speaking to anyone.
this is what the words said.

"i do not have a story
to tell.  in fact i have less
and less to even say to
you every day.  if it can
be simultaneously said that
i love you, then we will.
not disregard for your predicament,
a glass eye peering into
a funhouse mirror - nor
my tendency to tumble
headlong into disaster.
what this is is more or
less a declaration of love.
though i am sure you will
misunderstand even that.
which i am trying to make clear.
at some point i thought
my heart might burst.  this
is so restricted.  it still just
might.  what this is all to say is,
i did once.  when you were tired
and lay in bed all day i loved
you then.  when you jaundiced
and constantly hacked
and coughed and spit.
when your eyes dried up
in your head.  but this i
cannot stand.  your ridiculous
prattle, the posthumous dance,
your business of coming
and going."

i am sorry about your lip.  when you
were singing i fell in love with the pink
in your mouth.  i wanted my skin to match
so badly that now i look like the devil.

now i only want to be quiet, to hear you
sing again.  to generally keep as still as possible.
to speak of the human body and not
to speak of the human body.
things people die and are made of.


Wednesday, February 16, 2005

When identity is recognized


When identity is recognized
illusory, then models become,
at best, bright and fleeting distractions.

So what are we to do with this
intelligence? How do we play this?
Perhaps a memory will prove luminescent:

The front door was open.

A breeze fled the outside, and, once, the existent electricity became my distant cousin. I had asked, dancing, the past evening for a storm to keep pleasant personalities constrained, but last night, arguments dropped from the tree inside my apartment. Each burst on impact and filled me, and perhaps you, with a lovely fragrance. You said, “Ethics aside, I’d still do it because it’s such a fun game. If I ever get caught, I’ll respect that.” Later, I was told that our party was very Russian.

I’m curious—which is more valuable: the above memory, or when I tell you, now, that my lip is cracked and bleeding?


Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Bless us being indolent

Dear Trevor,

Bless us being indolent. Savage
in the gentlest way.
Lied to about who we may be.
Surrounded by "no bluer was he than I,"
I'd like to remain how I am.

I have no model for this, distracted
as I am by the minutiae of our
apparent movement.
Illusion of fine senses.
Illness that devours.

Things that are slow become beautiful. I'm not
saying this to hurt you. You dreamed it.
In your waking. Time flew by.
In your waking life, time dreamed it.
So we could do that with our sentences now.
We could love them. The way they.


Friday, February 11, 2005

World traveling epistles

A friend of mine, Andrew Adams, is traveling the world for the next few months, so we decided to try out some epistolary poems to each other, which will be posted here.

Dear Andrew,

Good god! Such besmirchment upon
the tertiary senses! Such
rupture of spleen. We always wear
lamentations as hair-shirts.

I’ve heard say that “we were raised
for a comfortable decline,
a decadence,” so we must become
men who query the horizons
—intuit weather patterns.
Wander with firm and eager purpose.

You must know, by now,that ontic
indulgences never approach
“the real” or at least that’s what
they say. They’ll tell you this about that:

“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“It’s a dangerous place to be.”