He looked the other direction.
...she checked the directions, the velocities of the winds
He couldn't follow the directions of his thought:
The spatial relation between them
and the course along which he point
or move...
And this:
Under the direction of the King something
have a tendency to develop how something
have to be done...
All this, a function of faster
if she could follow them
- and management, or guidance or steer
toward incoming derived forms...
Nevertheless, together, they proposed a newer direction
...which was not a formal statement to do something,
but more like him, when alone, him have no direction in him life...
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
CHRIST
I am trying to get rid of my homeless
jesus talking
small g genocide which he said we'd forgotten
when he says if
thousands of drought tolerant
shoppers
were made to thirst, as in, I thirst
less would need to be said. We had a laugh.
Maybe take a way the pain
medication...would that help?
- Had I been out to see the wild
flowers?
- Could I name my grandchildren, hurriedly, in their birth order?
- In what context
did I put him?
I, of course, had my own questions:
- where do we let you shit
- why do your eyes follow us in our cars
- in the snow, we are not monochomatic,
are you?
What gifts we are missing, were they given
what life we've spent was it driven
if there is no witness
is there a sound
...should we listen
What say the voices?
jesus talking
small g genocide which he said we'd forgotten
when he says if
thousands of drought tolerant
shoppers
were made to thirst, as in, I thirst
less would need to be said. We had a laugh.
Maybe take a way the pain
medication...would that help?
- Had I been out to see the wild
flowers?
- Could I name my grandchildren, hurriedly, in their birth order?
- In what context
did I put him?
I, of course, had my own questions:
- where do we let you shit
- why do your eyes follow us in our cars
- in the snow, we are not monochomatic,
are you?
What gifts we are missing, were they given
what life we've spent was it driven
if there is no witness
is there a sound
...should we listen
What say the voices?
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
BIRD YEARS
In man years, he's sixty-seven,
a wingspan of seventry-three inches;
voice: usually silent; pale feet.
More public support is needed
to save him for a little while longer.
He is willing to relocate
to the Vermilion Cliffs
above the Grand Canyon,
where he might expand
his wingspan
mimicking
the California Condor
chicks he'll nest with
if they'll have him.
He enjoys the mountains
and surrounding open
sparsely covered brush
country where he can
easily detect and
approach
carrion.
He is almost extinct
and more public support is needed
to save him, at last.
a wingspan of seventry-three inches;
voice: usually silent; pale feet.
More public support is needed
to save him for a little while longer.
He is willing to relocate
to the Vermilion Cliffs
above the Grand Canyon,
where he might expand
his wingspan
mimicking
the California Condor
chicks he'll nest with
if they'll have him.
He enjoys the mountains
and surrounding open
sparsely covered brush
country where he can
easily detect and
approach
carrion.
He is almost extinct
and more public support is needed
to save him, at last.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
INDEMNIFY ME
Even if put down by death
prematurely, any one of us blameless
to the undertaker, it's still shameless
how we've held our selves up
under the protection of Job's
even-handedness
despite somewhere in some bibles, it's
been muddled and
translates...his breasts are full of milk
and his bones are moistened
with marrow... or ...
his bowels are full of fat
and the marrow of his
bones is moistened...
is a pail of milk,
a wheelbarrow with
sheep skull hood ornament,
and there needn't be dust
distinguishing us, finally,
but, how, one may wonder, how may disparate selves
lie under, share stuff, even-
things out
amongst their own bone shards
at last, never again having to
help God say what he meant to say,
maybe
keep some death away which has them dying
in bitterness of soul...
whether good life, bad life
prematurely, any one of us blameless
to the undertaker, it's still shameless
how we've held our selves up
under the protection of Job's
even-handedness
despite somewhere in some bibles, it's
been muddled and
translates...his breasts are full of milk
and his bones are moistened
with marrow... or ...
his bowels are full of fat
and the marrow of his
bones is moistened...
is a pail of milk,
a wheelbarrow with
sheep skull hood ornament,
and there needn't be dust
distinguishing us, finally,
but, how, one may wonder, how may disparate selves
lie under, share stuff, even-
things out
amongst their own bone shards
at last, never again having to
help God say what he meant to say,
maybe
keep some death away which has them dying
in bitterness of soul...
whether good life, bad life
Friday, March 4, 2011
THE DEATH OF MRS. ALFIERI
A neighbor far from the fall
thought she saw a doll tossed
from the top step
but it was not
anyone but mum's old chum
reaching for the morning
news
thought she saw a doll tossed
from the top step
but it was not
anyone but mum's old chum
reaching for the morning
news
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
THIS IS WORK FOR THE THERAPIST:
Unkinking the kinked; splitting
two into one; whiting out
mistakes made in pairs
while one sits quietly bites
the lip white while
the other spits
unused anger white
at the corners
of the mouth.
And while the lather cakes,
his bride makes work
of lives recoiling
like cut barbed wire...
...the man of the house
on fire eats his wife and children
without listening to her dying...
to make light
of darkness
in their 50 minute hour...
two into one; whiting out
mistakes made in pairs
while one sits quietly bites
the lip white while
the other spits
unused anger white
at the corners
of the mouth.
And while the lather cakes,
his bride makes work
of lives recoiling
like cut barbed wire...
...the man of the house
on fire eats his wife and children
without listening to her dying...
to make light
of darkness
in their 50 minute hour...
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
RUBY THROAT
for my sons
A red spot on his face attracts a demon
hummingbird, who appears to kiss
a kind of kiss of death's near miss,
each of my boys hearing
its thrumming
wings beating about
their wounds quick
as their hearts
speed with fright
once
a melanoma's diagnosed;
their twin
bravado sets
like pitch against
their deaths,
and soon, we are
heretics in this.
A red spot on his face attracts a demon
hummingbird, who appears to kiss
a kind of kiss of death's near miss,
each of my boys hearing
its thrumming
wings beating about
their wounds quick
as their hearts
speed with fright
once
a melanoma's diagnosed;
their twin
bravado sets
like pitch against
their deaths,
and soon, we are
heretics in this.
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