...
"Antaeus who speaks and wears no chains
He will take us to the bottom of sin"
Dante, Hell
...
He will take us to the bottom of sin"
Dante, Hell
...
my wind-up clock's broken
the second hand can't make it
to midnight
makes a slight noise
a moth on a window screen
...
the shade of a venetian horse
crosses my window shade
a young boy asleep on the waves
clinging to a carved wooden figure
some mahogany crayfish effigy
marine in his lower extremes
the part of the world now under sea
the boy feeding on his carapace of wood
...
we are the pure white people
white of hair white of skin
saint peter will wave us in
where we will all be restored
as colored people as negroes
and walk on streets of gold
...
morning glories send
tendrils over everything
the sun gets up too early
birds crank up the merry-go-round
...
dime-store on mercury
a roman noir
I contacted every known planet
looking for something legit
ended-up covering a crossword puzzle
another sad sack in scrabble town
I received periodic balloon payments
until that blew up in my face
had to dummy up and take the battery
until my shins splintered under me
I gave them all the names I had
...
little hamlet
envenom with his envy
a prison of poison
dies in his own too much
...
in dante's hell
the sinful know who they are
...
martin luther
appeared before the diet of worms
as sort of an appetizer
...
the case of the open and shut bookcase
faraway nowadays
the post-mammalian review
ash wednesday the anti-hallowe'en
code breakers of sumatra
lunar vacuity
...
1912-2009
mom by the heater late at night
thinking in the dark
mom sitting on her porch
surrounded by trees smiling
...
ghost natural
vinegaroon
the spider's missing link
baboon metaphysics
a spill on the causeway
...
Bromides
My skull holes feel like an old bowling ball.
People stretch their faces over their emotions.
Light bulbs turn my fingertips into paper.
I can see my hand with my eyes closed.
We slip into the unworld slowly.
Bromides
My skull holes feel like an old bowling ball.
People stretch their faces over their emotions.
Light bulbs turn my fingertips into paper.
I can see my hand with my eyes closed.
We slip into the unworld slowly.
...
2009
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