Friday, September 26, 2014

Reeling

Mean makes the poem lurch.
Jerks on.
Blunt and light.
Only eyelashes at the start of poetics.
Hoof in the mouth.

Poem holds both bare hands.
Having picked a crop when the sun was edgeless, your noun cut.
Truth to a point on the wobbling sphere.

Poem splits legs sits on lie.
Round-about repentant.
Taste buds all smoke and sweet cake.

Heart in verb travels.
This word blueberry vibes tender.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

New

tracing the t in truth on my wrist
your finger
perpendicular
angular
hot
the very slight shifts in the tectonic plates of our bodies
earth
grounded like
the death of signifying
I’ll take off my skin and you hold half of yours over and against
let me have my cake and eat it too
exhale
a smoke ring dissipates
the thought
lend me your rose colored glasses
like watching the day in reverse
optimistic pessimism
weird
to see the shades glow blue at 6am is
highway hypnosis
speeding Judas
summer sand garb and spring fever fell
sifting through the corners of your mind and all those books you read and remember
tell me a new thing
I’m feeling that
lyricism
close
inhale on the ocean

hold

Untitled

tight
broken arms
bent on strangling
vines both coming from and going to the heart

move out to both ends from the middle
creep up
pinwheel
cross over

holds to itself
overlaps
unaware
divides
ungracious

alien around the blanched body
constricts
vessel holds veins
sepia tense to itself
to myself


Tuesday, September 23, 2014

2904 - 1409

the Silver Maple Place
unbounded
crooked porch step
beta fish flushed down the drain
Blue Boy
bye baby
cry baby
army green grass
grapefruit juice in the back of the station wagon
arms elbow skinned knees
in the grecian windflowers
pansies
blinking hard
with black tears on their bright faces that never fall
velvet and honey
at the bottom of the culdesac
three
nap
wake wide eyes to goodbye
and hot biscuits
wagon roll away
laugh
ache
we were
are
expansive and
Enchanted

Sunday, August 31, 2014

Trollop

your trepidation
her repetition
earnest
Sisyphus won’t stop wasting
barrel rolling down the giraffe’s neck
making note of long eyelashes and
overripe low hanging fruit

tart
spots and spoils
the artichoke heart
boils green
her smile raw
his wry

primed faces pinched
pink nails and purple tongues
long and callous necks sticking out into
the bold Atlantic wind
indifferent





Friday, July 25, 2014

Laundry

In the rain
Sleepy the yawning
Eyes
Rolling back into silver heads
Crying on the inside
In cold water
On dirty tile
Sticky slick
Waiting
For a voice that rings out like
A bicycle bell
Thrust arms
Grieving
Home: a shell of before
Lives now
Floating up like a bubble
In the market
House of the air
That at a breath’s notice
Will burst
And
Leave you an orphan

In the washroom

Breakfast

church bells reverberate above me in the park
old town
place
I hope to find my place
 the city speaks in bike bells
spells
spell binds you into the corridor of a dark and winding tunnel
the dark and whining
screeching
this is progress
it is actually more modern
to talk to each other rather than to
be here but away in our palms
this is the time I learned to speak quietly and to be heard
and to be black and be visible without being bleak
bleached
black wherever
like bronze in the sun
suppose we started at the beginning and made our way here grasping nothing?
because it all slips through and falls low to the earth
like my dark skin
and a simmering fog on a sultry evening
all the flash extinguished
only leaving the function
the minimalist form
of pulling bodies grounded and
alone still
in a green space