The Body Is Its Own Ambulance
Ephemeral what isn’t.
Ephemeral everything.
The beauty of the word season conjuring.
Tragedy.
Trance abstractions sans words.
Sans voice sans sound.
Venetian blind shadow stripes.
Dust motes.
Tomee Tippee Sippy Cup’s fabricated infinity.
Mirage reflections on the expressway ribbon road.
One is hard pressed to find the survival advantage offered by a solid grasp of reality.
Feral finite beauty.
Time.
We.
E’s photo as I open up to write this.
Deadscape
gold crown of dead leaves
the world is an indictment chamber
I was afraid I would swallow my tongue
someone suddenly died
that each of us is
between last night and now
the dazzlement of skill
inanity and insanity’s slack
the interesting authenticity of a life
speaking for & w/the dead
any day now they will be illegible
w/nothing like enough avail
and kept falling as into an abyss
slashed by the fragmentarity
what was I asking for
nothing ever goes back
then the accidental happens
an incantatory corrosion shunning
is there any enduring consolation
is the sound of a solo tête-à-tête
Somnolent Room
(I sometimes feel
the same way now ––
here’s my perfect
complete in its fullness
empty
room
& then you come in &
ruin it
tossing
a shirt
on the furniture
(poem or no
an ink blot
on a radiant page))
Assiduous Trees
for all their battered heft you could quibble over their magnificent height
bountiful but oddly unnatural alive in winter they shed palpable light
an intensity that seems to bend the atmosphere around them
surprisingly serene citizens of a city on the brink of distinction
found in their wanderings an active almost luminous partner
yielding to a bewildering angularity performed as a silent
yes but also lusciously precise graphically etched image
an electronic soundtrack of chirping birds is particularly noticeable
near the benches and fencing the emotional tenderizing
of the human by means of relentless pounding
we work in epiphanies walking while dissecting
there will be a little halo moist forage in the feral ditches
in a corner of the white guarded by a scrawled cardboard sign
don’t fucking touch someone has written I admire your project
Word Bird
All I am doing is reading all I can ever do is read
Reading black/white letters I’m a skein of grey
Why should I have to write gray just because I’m
American not Anglo
Grey’s more evocative descriptive of grey
Its vague lettered onomatopoeia
I want its lettered grey to be lettrix but that’s not a word it’s an app
I want lettrix in Latin to be a female reader but it’s not
I’m a libris dedita
A degendered librocubicularist reading in bed
There is however retrix in English although Jesus HC it is also an app
If I add a c– rectrix’s a boss lady girl birdy shaking her tail feather
One of those divinating quills guiding avian flight should I opt to wing it
This soaring verse wafting on updrafts w/feathered quill on recto & verso