Friday, August 15, 2008


January we awake in the door of
seasons, to another trickster's perseverance,
forgotten in a sleight
of hand. These days we hesitate to wonder what the eyes hadn't seen.

at the threshold
of waking; of the
reverence that
begins a child, we
are born into omnipresence
beside a hospital gown, the ceiling choir,
Loki, a jackal beneath the vending
machine, of thirty arms
he provides himself sustenance,
life to others and death,
death comes only in the dawn of new ages.

The nurse annuls a beginning,
with the only familiar
pattern of a heart, engraved
into the entrance of thought, with the passage
of unseen apparitions. A cross
of distant voices and the
hint of a light were the sun
itself abducted. it diminishes
into the weakest subtlety, into an
unseen path, roamed asunder by the
hands of a hundred thieves.

the siren of the nighttime leads
him from his mother, bloodied
at the lore of reason. as a
stare upwards reveals the infirm
escaping through the lights. How we flee
through the egress of winter.

in two years, in the
sparsity of the land,
from the sultry arrays of haystacks, again
their hands arrange an offering.
Again there are a hundred acres
to surrender to the businessmen. The rain brings
a stillness in the latest hours, to again
flood into the fields; the child
weeps into the night at the
spite of acquiescence. A voice
eclipsed the hollow of dusk, to again
cede as the prey of the rainfall,
and so his halcyon years
dwindle as any others. into
the eyes of heaven, amaranth polished
the passage of the wind, or was
it a pilgrimage? The wind
in the mid-day rush is
the mistress of the tilted window,
beckoning to it as it slams into the wall.
Your father betrays his words
and fills your home with another.
No small repair seems half
as attained, when something of your own creation
stood yet to be mended. The dawning
season rescinds of the children
the verdant illusions that seldom
rose from their hands.
The awning makes no mention of
its treason to the senses.

You called the winding
dirt path a boulevard. Your sister raises
your fingers around the sun, to pull
it into the folds of the land.

"It's mine,
beside my accusations. See, the land
is mine,
as I am everyone,"
she glowed
in the upward surge of the waves. a
knell of fate. All the men tremble as
the wolf emerges from between
two trees, as if marble
columns jutting from the Pacific
carrying the warnings
of every god we've forgotten.
The villagers speak in hushed tones over
those who prowl the wood at dusk. Beyond
the rows of wheat and the treeline, the
sky in the hint of morning is a mirror
posed above the impressionable earth. The deeds
of men in this life, they say, are
scaffolds in the sky, leading at a constellation.
Still here is the afterring
in the cries of every night's bandits. Still
is the silence in the air when the killing
has finished, and their pursuits have uncovered
no trace of anything.

The deceit of dreaming is the comfort
sought by the eternally indebted. There is a hooded man
who stands upon the porch outside,
his face in the shroud of now the
dawning outline. Gloved
fingers curl on the windowsill- the collector.

Sjorn's father, bolted upright at the wrong floorboard, has
a revolver levied at his chest.
"Get back to sleep," in an exit;
he slips through the window and runs.
There is no sight in these moments,
a clockwork soldiers forward and
crumbles at the noise. The howl of your mother
wrought vengeance to the ear.

the patrol
is the tip of the knifecloud of dust, hidden
but for the sirens
that have been sewn into our clothes. Outside they
are stooped behind the corn rows and the barn
inching at the holster. Maryann the spaniel
in the obedience of her lives, disappears
into the cracks of the floorboard amidst
the bullets, like rainfall. It is
a matter of behavior and reward, eventually
her fingers and tongue both lost their dimensions
and so only a projection remained. amaranth
is the shards of the furnace in the wall, gold lines
along the edges of the stream, how we become
median strips when the days drag us on enough. How we
witness the airplanes in a moment's escape, how the
irrelevance of thirty miles below forged
a yellow light, from the ground
thought to cut the sky into pieces.
How the expanse of the sea, rendered irrelevant,
seemed weak to the fortunes of men. Maryann, tucked
between the attic and the emptiness of the sky,
had a word for me, hymnals approaching in parallel lights, across the harbor,
men adorned in the a self-divined garb. A row of candlesticks
and swords raised upward,
in alternate lines, tailor
a torn flannel stretched cross the brick wall.
Maryann shivers in some long-left
propensity to stutter, tears fall like knives
in the longest pulls of winter.

Sunday, May 4, 2008

sunday, may fourth, two-thousand eight

were you called a
plant on the window
sill, still echoes "self",
grinned a little and laid
across the foliage. Tell
my Sunday, I will return
soon, with burn marks criss-
crossing my back

were you brought, some
laughter in the next
room over was quick to fall
into your hands,
wearing scars into
your palm. Monday, now,
not as easily questioning
the alchemist's plan?     Was
a dedication, short six
bars of gold, time to take a

had any light
so planned to come through your
window, to present itself
in kaleidescopes? You called it
"illusory," I thought to
replace some
sense of

Sunday, April 20, 2008


// a

where   ap   anthe-r
rg   ly. fla   t ino
cags    a.e of   san
ds    tone
   f i

// b

wher -e h
ad t....he zo
koep   er ab
ove    the fenc
e on
crags o
f      branche
   ifseem edto
    ou -

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

where is my sailboat

walked the waves
            vipers coaxed of
           chains around your head,    A medusa
          out; into
          circles of handcuffs.
           Beneficiaries           (caught hair streaming, waves sat bey
              under the                                   ond)
           crescent tried their luck.
still upward
            eyes, yours as
       an offering a wreath above crows
       nest, your hand waving
               marked some apology for in-     (went here)
                 tallied a
               top the deck of
          some sinking boat the
           captain feigns indifference
            to the rising
          Rattled in your
          terrace the
           dusk had lashed
          itself at the
      irises -
      were your clothes still in tatters?
          from your shoulders
       5 more minutes
       caught in dawn,
       fell the waves un
       to still facing upward

Thursday, March 27, 2008


Everyone carries a room about
inside them. This fact can
be proved by means of the
sense of hearing. If someone
walks fast and one pricks up
one's ears and listens, say
at night, when everything
roundabout is quiet, one hears,
for instance, the rattling
of a mirror not quite firmly
fastened to the wall.
- Franz Kafka

Another Saturday
blooms itself into libation.
I find my own vertigo to
flare into periscopes quickly
upon gazing out the window.

Siren-light looked astray,
breaks apart into Quixote's
tilt-a-whirls upon the wall
past your countenance. The rattling
of typewriters from the next room

follows a strictly prescribed pattern,
except for several words. "Mister" or
"Missus," depending upon the recipient,
"son," "father," or "husband" depending
on the subject. Meanwhile, a grave

silence has shown its face, yours
hides scowling behind a cable bill.
Your carpet quickly becomes
a vast desert, although only I and
your dog seem to recognize it. "Cerberus,

Cerberus," I call. He dips his head into his bowl. Hades,
you show your face in subtle ways. I scratch him behind the ears.

Mierda en sus ojos, mierda en sus dientes

Your fingers were as hacksaws, I said,
one zigzagged grin - again a refugee. To a standstill now.
The floorboards, now covered in sawdust-
pounced on by your daughter, eyelids tight,
a day's effort again failed
to turn them back into mahogany.
"My grandfather, the great carpenter," I offer,
"would the trees have been as soldiers,
a barren earth would greet us at dawn.
Were the sky to be as merciful,
a thousand rains of streetcleaners
again on this ensieged city. It retracts
endlessly back into the earth."

Sometimes at night, your daughter
sobs in her sleep, waking to
a pillow of ferns. Sometimes
you watch her circling the room,
from the corner your hand braids her hair into Parthenons.

"Mierda en sus ojos, mierda en sus dientes."

Marina, I saw you yesterday at the bus stop,
whispering lost languages into your phone. March
is our last effort to cut the ice from the leaves.
March is our last sacrifice to a god who tells us
we're a month too early for goodwill.

you sat five rows ahead. Off
into the hills, again we are carried.
Orchids tear past the windshield in streams, a
cinema subtitled for the
bewildered among us. These theatres
were constructed mid-landslide, a
bee with its forewing caught
between seats swings itself
over and over, to curl itself
beyond the Minoan, centuries ago, now
into a bloodied pulp.
You sigh and run your fingers
through your daughter's hair,
to a standstill now.

Sunday, March 9, 2008

The End of Nations


saint I once knew said,
"no clarity in the face of locks,
nor in the presence of keys,"

quickly disregarded,
Hold a radiator, fixed
to spew such outnonsense.
a repairman waits wrenched in
a drought of patience.


Stolid doorframes today
held in the door-to-door salesman.
-to wince at those sounds. cross the sea
was your destination, a scholar
o' maps, mends the borders like wire.
lauded destiny to me in pamphlets.
Looked twice at him, told him there
is no salvation in bothering others mid-breakfast.
"do you still in mornings here wake,
without heed of your sin? boy
I was like you once"
the door shuts.
Were my car lined in gold, would be
a fantastic sight on Central Boulevard.
today I outlived a lot of people. kind of
reasons people buy cars, easier to carry
with an engine than your shoulders. told this
to the students today. forgive me, I've yet to
publish these dialogues. here
the train squeals in
a thousand delights, laid flat,
the rails guide themselves into the sky. noble'd
the trails of indigence,
for the satiety of none.


Conspired was the end at sight,
Union Station lighted into apartheid,
sometimes fell skywise to
forgive, yet to truly
show our arrogance. further south
were attempts reconciliation,
at drowning was the sign of convenience
that shot steam boats into the fog.
A littered white crossed your eyelids.
Some epics are drowned'n praises of Muse,
was enough for now.

A circuit broke sunwise through
coils of power lines, birds flew
quickly from the trees. gone the road
diamonds shoot from the earth in helices,
atop the graves of hundreds.
wrought a word from Helen, apologetics
again in the blight of saints.


Shots whipped the threaded night, struck at the bus lines first. A
fury apart from the kings in
drunken curses from the tavern. The children
would ask, "Apostle, have we
yet to truly encourage ourselves?" I left
not to be bothered so simply.
Sunday would rise
soon in some triumph of garbage trucks.
"to forget consequence," I instruct,
barring - D.C. al fine, etc
the point remained.
persisted upon these
subjects for many hours.
A nest of wasps hung
outside the window covering it
in graffiti and cigarette butts, "shoo,
shoo", I continued, but
for a moment to have fallen through,
has gone, and
returned to claiming my house. distracted
from such encounters I return to point
at colorful letters and tell toddlers to recite them.
outside the deeds to houses
are torn in the hands of few, twigs
are plucked from a bird's nest and
semantically plunged to sidewalk.
forget vagrancies of speech;
arose at pressing matters,
park bench crossed back from
memory. made love in the woods
at dusk, apart from some
tired vengeance laid in part
none so easily forgotten.
thousands passed before
with not but a thought.
anticipation so easily
relinquished was your
only way to properly


Today I am a diplomat. apologizing
for all the roadblocks lately. we have
many plans to get rid of the land mines,
straightened the collar and watched the crowd.
sordid banners lay streaming across the faces.
apart again from a flag 'bove the rooftop,
Jove, you traitor of princes, eclipse
in the mart walls of Samson, shotgun
flying into the Oregon nighttime,
a truck barrels into the hills. for hours
at night I find the clock some dalmatian of fire,
spilling into my palms. Forgive me this time.
they are burning cars outside, a staircase
of smoke we rise atop, traced ellipses
with your fingers in the sand once,
dug through with your toes, some
weary salt trembled over the air.
Later arrows fell from your eyes,
quivered through your palms
with a footstep into the room.
Half in centuries later, stood atop
podiums and declared several new
initiatives designed to curb
a variety of things. Outside
a forest laid awash, judgment of
cardboard boxes sought the canopy,
fostered in our compasses. a camera shutter
rewinds, strapped round the neck some
daughter of millions. straightens her
eyes 'gainst the glare of the sun.
apart from the encampment lies
a troop nearing a century. a pyramid
lies await mid sky, canals broke from
eyelids into the sand. carried cross our
Nile were a handful of
men atop horses, in parallel order
without a motion.

Saturday, March 8, 2008

"statues in the square, thanksgiving Night"

just as much object of granite
formless, Many received implied frays said
to impact on crucifix

found industry may be her.
apparently made once of the cots,
Persian, rug villains of the membrane
go by once more frigid
rolled over in the stenciled moonlight
surmise, formally Attica weeps
from her name terrible stars
over and long as the roofs tear off
and the sky of molten brass
Pan hides under the soil
plants amidst the roots, long as
fingernails tearing into earth

there were none toying,
weeps a motionless effigy formally
(were it to be a longer wager)
How for finite at all
in a lake amid the boats of tires,
and it was she
starts the rest was family
up on a tome,
only predictions
sharp thoughts they hadn't
truly fallen so far
to pierce the surface.

friday, may 21: Citation For employee misconduct

On prison:

our ship
torn, animal shelter's
-windows shattering

"that it would be easier,"
that silence leisure-
complacence, simplicity.

Shuddered at the thought of tranquility-
tomorrow our daydream

Sunday memory rendered.

Mousetrap would know;
he knew investigate, tiptoe near to
were twelve thousand miles testament to our efforts?
-our shattered necks

light renders in silent rays,
for vision's adherence-
surrender accompanied the keychain, a
grim look on the Warden

floors strewn with the letters
was to rebuild effort past
nor through footsteps of pounding through aircraft-
was the flight once complete.

ATV trails in the Woods

"Look", she says

eyes at the garbage-monolith
feet comb the tall grass

rain poised to attack
clouds over this imitation jungle

"the squirrels conspire," she warns

She's right

I hear them whisper in trees

acorn grenades in hand
attack from soda can tenements

to walk over logs
No, she climbs

tip-toe arms outstretched
crucified on the air

and the power lines overhead
tear through the woods for us watching
thread of the wasteland patchwork.

last hour, Thursday evening


apart f
rom the porch lights of dreaming

who hadn't yet to show
jagged edge o
f horizon
so of moths followed

had looked t-them all far
not as far

Anticipation dodged to left-t
she is whispers:

painting mas-
cara across shirt

blind, impotent charcoal.

weeps into pillow eyes buried

"woke when it was time"

--watching the pavement through

car window as

it is

-thrown at


oh mischievous Dusk
oh every minute you thieve

hold out ours

Wait for me as running
not apart as far/

not with headlights to glare
you, third into dock
behind me and ahead

Sun, escape from her hollow womb

to tear apart behind
& fled from tonight.


Here, the sun pushing artifice
she folds her hands of restless,
wind in falling eyes

"Watch," she says,
"There are dogfights about the lantern;
noble soldiers of the air"

All I can see are moths
in twilight's screaming symphony
pounding at the wall

Outside autumn peeks of tomorrow
to the lullaby of hammers
fleeing into concrete

outside, on the step
she scribbles on her arms
quickly, before there is anything to forget.

player Four times, on Repeat

Here are these shapes the sky is folding
of the books pressed into your eyes

Here we are in
tired intrude to come

rest your head to lights

glow of the channel murmur

in heels of tiles of snow

tired acknowledge in passing hail
in dull lectures of shadows on wall
to rest head to windowsill

dusk to tire of tomorrow

still wield it high above your head
of their hallowed shouts

out of the overdone
through fog of her sonnet lost

Her door slumbered ajar
constable throwing traffic of light

he is the solitary player
screaming at empty theater
to applause of silence;
and he slips from chimera

to become the drunk man
screaming outside my window.

beneath Lawrinson tower, 9:02 AM

-watching the tundra of concrete

slept to the rain of dusk, now
it bathes the vacant obelisk.

One girl emerges

she lifts her umbrella of sun
erased stray marks of the clouds

shuffling across the sunken pavement
healed in her wake

the sun lies in the slum of horizon,
hiding in frigid blanket.

drawing Finches in the park

Mice pulverizing usurpers
was a swan brightens the insides

friends up awoke things

held shaped with those who had
and had my bread taken by rowdy Aztec kings

I scraped four hours of them shouting
sustenance, swung below and stole her
told would Sunday it to hours

into into of flat, a lake fixed

god its have Ballet, labrador ears come up parted,
god its burning stereo read and god where smithereens,

Its morning let feathers fall

Within was me making for its night
freight train of broken wings fluttered outwards

my flat and point its conductor
smashed to it confines until;

back crumbs without on the North End bus
pecked its system, Saturday misfortune

all sights, again
sprouting incandescent in silhouette of sun
smiling at the pyramid eyes

Then it it and its shabby talons

wounded to ringing still
but shifted to manage
Its rewired shouted drowning
at the smallest of everything

the furious Disassembly of a Thermostat

The furious disassembly of a thermostat never spoke to me of artistic merit, only the failures of a thermostat, though I would later mount its parts on canvas. Circumstance had led us to little more than confusion. Everything that had been left unspoken we found in a bundle on the stoop, perfectly explicit.

The weeks passed by quickly. Those who I'd been accustomed to had already left for winter. The walls were repainted a cold blue and stripped of decor.

There were dozens of metal pieces on the thermostat that appeared to have not any purpose. I tore it apart. A ball bearing slipped and traced the creases of my clothes to the ground. I heard it click on the debris, it slipped into the river of floorboards. The twisted strands of metal spelled out letters of contempt.

I have built this home of tall grass so that I may stand above the deserts. I have hidden my children in the walls for safety.

The snow cautiously infiltrates as we sleep. I hear the wind whistling through the cracks in the windows. I stand and the blankets fall softly on her. I have found a violin in the cellar, I say, so I will write you the works of Van Gogh. A brilliant undertaking, they will say. I never had aspired to anything more. On her bed of willow she lies, the curtains hang in leaves.

I sit with my head to the window. There is a glimmer of light off the porch. The gears have their pilgrimage through ether.

The Billboards, like Giants, are Illuminated

There is a whole new variety of Calliopean tofu in the supermarket. It is still tofu, however, and I refuse to consider it any different. Vegetarianism is no incentive to enjoy tofu. I wander over to the section containing fruits. This week they have pomegranates, but they are oh a whopping two and a half dollars each but I never can finish them and winter has dragged on far too long already. I will reconsider buying these pomegranates. I am mildly annoyed by the TV overhead shouting recipes at me. Oranges, tangerines, clementines, they are all orange so what is the matter if I am to choose one over the other? Instead I will buy kiwis and truly nobody will be content.

People are not so much content to fill billboards with nonsense as they are to fill them with advertisements. I notice this over the course of fifteen thousand billboards between me and Long Island. The only people on the road at 3 AM are either truck drivers, insane or drunk. I am none of these, however, which makes me a deity. The highway is composed entirely of wool to be sewn. I have a better idea: I will suggest to you a list of States to speak the names of and you will speak the names of those states. This game is boring.

She moves her head around when she is excited like she is eating off of the floor. This is somehow endearing. More on this topic later.

Now. We are told not to eat off of the floor. There are bugs. Indeed there are bugs, but are we to question the benevolence of the bugs? Truly they themselves might be offended by our reluctance. Instead we will clean the floor carefully before eating off of it. Are we truly to find so much beauty in things only from idiosyncrasy? Is that in itself beautiful? Aberration? Is a house filled with exotic animals truly more welcoming? Nonetheless, she is full of raccoons and so I will cherish her. Maybe I'll marry her someday.

She tells me that we are not to swim at this beach because the water is full of bacteria and people have become sick by swimming in it. The beach is connected to the harbor. The harbor is connected to the ocean. Water flows freely. Something to do with local rainfall. There are too many factors that I don't really understand. There is another car in the parking lot for the beach full of high schoolers smoking pot. We wander over to the shack and pound on the door until an alarm is set off and then leave the other kids to take responsibility. I offer to play some music but I forgot that I have filled all my CDs with static. An unfortunate mistake. I rest my head in her breast and sleep for several days. There are centuries full of things yet unseen. I will paint for you every tragedy of the future and you can have them but you can't show them to anyone.

Please follow the instructions on the cabin door:
1) The highway is composed of wool. This is a truism.
2) Everybody will disapprove of your work because it is esoteric. This is also a truism.
3) It will be decades before your work is appreciated.
4) Snow is actually made of cotton and it melts because it is so small.
5) Contradiction is actually truth.
6) People hate your work because it sucks.

I am having some trouble following them but am quite reluctant to ask for assistance. Am I to question the integrity of the instructions themselves?

I am going to write you a letter, God. Dear God, if you're so tough, why don't you own up to your actions? I think I discover some universal truth about cigarettes that will allow me to quit but that truth is only useful if I have the strength to apply it but what use is the truth if I have the strength anyway, and is the truth even true if it doesn't stop me from smoking? I haven't had a cigarette all day. I get to Melissa at five in the morning and we walk to some Long Island diner in the freezing cold. She orders a coffee and I order a toasted bagel with no toppings. I regret this decision immediately upon receiving the bagel because I have not slept and have been staying awake on caffeinated gum and my stomach is in knots either from this or Melissa. There's only one other group of people in the diner and for some reason they've decided to sit at the next table over. As retribution, we will loudly ridicule their conversation. What use is writing songs if you use the same melody? What use is sitting at the same table week after week, ordering the same shrimp casserole?

The sun rises over the sound and the billboards like giants are illuminated. I have discovered anxiety even in static and empty roads. I cannot adequately put this into words but try anyway. I have discovered the sun atop her stomach and my head basks in the light. Her guitar sings of bicycle shops and sunlit taverns and I rest on her pillows dimly listening.


Muse, you walker so languid;
daughter row whiteness of the storming machine
&snow look at beauty it sees
with golden sun had no worships we be

go by frantic; wise if they ran to me
spectate her lingering echo

moon is crossing its eyes
thrown your splintered shins to the water
& and the locket up aether you waved through your hands
he stuffed in his pocket

radiators spout illumination lapsed in recycle bin
windmills windmills windmills windmills

and he sits on the ledges of of pyramids
watching her paint Congressmen on the frogs
only to hurl them at the lake

remitted was the end of everything
shot Christmas lights from the television'd door

For Several Decades, Although-

she is carving mice into mountains of paper
and there are holes in the drawers into
which you will bury the sun

she sends letters upstairs each Wednesday
a short walk to the park, followed
the sundials of sidewalks your feet
tap on the cobblestone
fled on the branches each as daybreak
ducked behind the trees

ate bread cross-legged on the floor
sang to me each limpid intimation
I laid on my back with the wind from the harbor
piercing into the creases
sewing together the walls in piano strings
rang still, wintered through this broken chord

she is carving mice into the sun
there in the ocean are their tired silhouettes
there in water's blanket-folds
I have shoveled the weariest tunnels


Noon broke through the windows of the cafe.
the orphans gathered outside the hotel
laughing and hubcaps tore down the street

The violinist serenades the passersby,
the drunks have gathered to gamble on the traffic
while the alleys spill out into bicycle chains
scratching the doors at news of summer's death

Twice today Vladimir shouts his poems at the corner
there is an assembly of junkyard dogs to heed the words
scanning the meter with scissors and sculpting vultures of the cars

scarcely have the newspapers fallen out of the truck when they have trampled them to pave the street

Twice today Vladimir shouts his poems at the corner
there are ships colliding in his eyes
we have hardly reassembled his arms but how fiercely he waves them about

Sunday I heard her laughing
carried our hands to the fire escape, shouted
"Vladimir, boy, you are always sinning
what jokes you've carved of the tenaments
for you we paint our doors with your blood"

Vladimir wanders through the lane
builds chapels of the pebbles, crafts the steeple out of wolves

On dress rehearsals and the death of American-made instruments

1) accelerando

halcyon microscope jumbled up stages
"the actress moon falls to the earth in dinner plates," esteemed yesterday ponders
repeating the letter 't' twenty-seven times
and tomorrow watches casinos sprout from our mouths

I pressed the button seventeen times before
realizing the elevator was a revolving door
I trusted that pillows have safely arrived
and slept on my hands in the alley

I have sang- 1,2,3, is he still listened for?
I have sang also 1,2,3,4,5,6,7, there are
aforementioned notes shatter of our eyes
rogue of the parlor removed all the clocks
choreographer lit up
as the balls of your feet pound the floor
your father stares at his watch
rang tolls of last solstice,
cars tore from the empty parking lot

2) diminuendo

alight in shards of brass
the moon is reflected and ignites the trees

Friday, March 7, 2008

Daedalus and Icarus

folded hands shut

dusk folded itself to the trains
overhead the curtains came shutters
skylights into maps,

fathers laid our heads down
sorted from the streetlight, once engulfed
sighed sun through the canopy in dust
in the tall grass we hear only a rustle

cross the waves this bronzen city
our holiest bow at its sunken grace
in vines we have buried the windows, climbing upwards
your statues fell beside the tracks
in the rattle of these distant sounds
Icarus, bound to the rail

they are remaking the moon in wax
and tie the branches in silhouetted strings

mice scurry on the floors of the towers
the trees collide through the windows, one
leaf singed through the road
cars cut through the bottom of the sky

Apollo & Daphne

first time around
draped the ardent paths from the clouds
engraved; & sold the adobe mountain

Briefcase fell open, wisps of paper fell in the sky
sun shone still through hollowed logs
Nile delta fell onto the branch

sat and stared still,
in father's denim, pulled down the clothesline
across the shed threw the kitchen in tiles

twisted cloth& silt from the hands
wrap the city in ceramic folds
this slight echo in the telephone lines

faltered from the wires overhead
jumped over the logs in flight
locks fell from place,

wrap the forest in glass
transmission got tangl'd in the laurel
yellowed tape around the trunk

4 AM the clock busts open panting
television's mute flash on the blankets;
breakfast mid-dawn, slippers on the plastic tiles
bus to the hospital, forty-five minutes on the hour
pallid sky rested through the window;
priests rest outside the rooms
hands clung to the hospital bed
and Apollo lands outside on the curb
arrow pierced the elbow

A Sonnet For My Raisins

out of cardboard crafted piers.
children found chairs in a car garage, whistling-
songs of magazine pages, torn, appeared
captured in an oil stain underfoot.

similarly I have found the sun
atop cardboard stained red, singes:
the edges of desk, paper stung in
the reddened tips of our fingers.
"Sun-Maid" atop the mount, some
mottled odalisque. Beauty is more
of an absolute when you have spent
the last fifteen years poor,
wringing your hands and staring out
the window of a raisin factory.

"airplanes are heaven,ships deserve to sing"

Seven hours I hold together
my arms, colliding into the edges of my seat.
A hollow drone rises from the floor. Sometimes
I mistake the snoring behind me for
engine failure.

Eno's "Music for Airports" was written with the presumption
that music in airports should not be repeatedly telling people
"you are not going to die,
you are not going to die,"
rather it should be telling people
"It's alright if you die."
the in-flight movie today works similarly, some tame
mistake made by a hapless youth
which results in about five years of turmoil
followed by a quiet marriage,
a full pension and
frequent air travel.

Kitty Hawk, 1901 our newfound wings
broke from the sand to burst into the air
leaves our immobility in its shadow,
so our conquest for the sky concludes.
Icarus's dazed Mediterranean path became straight lines, our fatal blasphemy
now comes with a complimentary bag of peanuts.

the man next to me
straightens his collar, lies his briefcase behind his legs
stares out the window with a worn sigh and
falls asleep. A lulling hum rises from the floor.