Doves With Razor Beaks Triolet

A dove would grow a razor beak
as would a monglor shaking hands
yet letting mad intentions leak.
A dove would grow a razor beak
bury alive all those who speak,
and banish thoughts that, in one's land,
a dove would grow a razor beak.

Dispersing Body

Who am I
without my body?
--A slowly descending
thing
I've definitely detached
for I hear my lips
smack
apart
and see them depart at once
discontinuous.

Who am I
without a body?
--A driftaway thing,
in clicking crickets
I'll join with soon.

Neuroplasticity

--Doing; feeling later,
much later
as doing now's against all feeling
made by the past's doing.

But it bends--how?
--and welds new iron shapes.
Here, discipline:
the transformation of all
to taken up case.

But it's not true, you say,
and so rebend the world
to suit this your new view,
and place a shape of it.

There's a Hermit

There's a hermit behind
the town he was born in.
In some woods
his youthful visage
cleared dark thickets,
his scragly balding head
reclusing further
from skeletal mechanism.

Just outside, it swarms,
but when dark, he sheds tears
for the long days ever longer,
opining these years:
the same neighbors always seen
in their windows
who turn the same way
to the same places
to the same
'till bony and creaking.

Imagiste Poem

Orange blossoms
drain under sun,
finger-tapping a fading ho-hum.

What Trees Talk About

During noonday
trees congragate around
billowing tailpipes.

"They headin' where?

With our leaves
we don't know,
just wave and stare;
can't uproot ourselves
around though scenes change
with browning air."

Cold With Neglect

If I've dance my perverse dance,
It was later than most.
As season blossoms, glittering mounds
Nurture roses with bird's jazz rounds;
Yet even more times cold with neglect,
Sends red bouquets to wilt and forget.

A Rush of Clouds

A rush of clouds
conjured eons
in my sight.
The passion sprang
ahead of legs.

If it will
but charge again,
though less,
as last
I fell off that cliff,
just again
clear dust
off pearl windows,
I'd retrace the steps,
reform areal
the whirl of the world.

A Dead Ideal

Once I thought I'd create
such a moment
a true ideal
that though above
and below it
might vomit putrid fluids,
well so what!
I had one moment
and back I'll fly,
prove I keep my memories.

That line of thought--ideal
--what a joke,
a sham to remove a self
from turning ongoing
whose insatiable demands say
"Do something--Now!

"What you thought you'd avoid
by doing once I need again
and again and more besides."

One Quick Sketch of Time (or of a Time)

Memories,
the present dying,
stretched across fluid action.

Hidden under
layers
of blanket
I dream of cleverness
more.

Tossed

Hi,
rise water crest
in pat pat,
glinting swishes
in sand and salt
inhale, sink,
and become a new.

Heading East

Trying to sigh some out there rice,
the slanted eyes of a quarter moon
blow my curtains.

The white light scattered, I raise my thoughts
like lips to a bamboo flute,
and sigh a few wiles.

The King's Been Dead, Long Live the New One When?

I was sure I saw concern for certainty
closing certainly its stiff jaw.
The opening of all solicitations
have stretched out in our midst,
so the horror horns have stopped,
concern for rethinking comes to an end,
and there's just reordered structure to the world
about where I trek, and what I worship's
absolute for me alone and unobjective
it broke the window, where I run away,
leave Modernity in that campy sense,
I'll keep its gadgets but transcend.

Simple Economics Get Us Up

Check the symbols on this receipt
--all hands on deck!

Monetize metaanually,
ticking increases in size.

And then? Use different tech terms,
but do it again.

Sun turns monotone and ins go out
--how else should an up Corp. run?

On the Clock

The customers have been asking
if I work here.
Fed-ex came through the back door, and left me all alone;
“Where’s the bathroom?” The kid has to take a leak.
Have you noticed the security cameras?
And the manager, knowing nothing else to do, viewing the screens?
And the computer’s out of service.
As usual, some #s between 1-40 mean 0
and the manager can’t find ‘musicals’
and the manager can’t find things
and she’s having trouble.

The manager can’t find ‘musicals’
and you can’t find “The Last Night of the Earth”
even with seven copies
and I guarantee you that she will hate you
from the bottom of her screen
with the date, and friends you spoke to lying,
“You just can’t run a business without her”
and the manager can’t find ‘musicals.’

The manager can’t find ‘musicals’
and the clocks on the phone are off
and time won’t be your friend
and the rule-maker’s comfie
at home with mother
and the manager can’t find ‘musicals’
without fear of contradiction I say
the manager can’t find ‘musicals.’

Our Father, who art surrounded by goods,
hallowed be thy name
thy kingdom come, thy will be done
on Earth as it is in totes of stock,
give us this day our daily bucks
forgive us our wasting
as we forgive those who continue to waste against us
and lead us not into spentation
but deliver us from primitive things that end up in the dumpster.

Because the manager can’t find ‘musicals’
And she’s your friend not mine
Because the manager can’t find ‘musicals’
And she’s not my responsibility.

The boxes are stacked
cream puff tree paper yellow
and the owner is just an apparition
hallucinated by those with no green.

I’m diving down, hang on to me, I’m
down going.
Watch me live off coverless whatzitz
I know I can do it, I’m in control
and the manager can’t find ‘musicals’
and she’s embarrassing me
she's passed the job to someone else

and the café’s on fire
and all the magazines are fake
and the registers crapped out
and I’ve got a feeling the manager can’t find things
--just a hunch
and she’s going to lunch.

Hi, Laforgue

The questions delivered to your door
about how to program the day

are dispenced by chatty heads
and ten second censor delay.

Let's magnify some certain points,
suck the air in glutton's trance,

up the decible for our neighbors,
flaunt our stance.

Tip Top

Keep our arms pumped
Full of berry gelatin
by exercising.

Up and over try to jump
so that this moment is a win
until the next sends our drowning.

Drown--or rot on a stump,
doing nothing with a stupid grin
skin flaking way and whitening.

How is Such a Wall Alive!

Doestoyevsky asked a similar question
About a similar maniac indeed living,
But none splashed such bright meaning

over all; even greys like moving a brush on
rotten teef, or pooping green and ergo giving
more life to rotten Earf, careening

through a void bumping the sun
awfully close to the eight ball sending
it down a pocket when 'Game Over!' rings.

Whorty Shorty (Under the Wall)

Whorty Shorty shows up
To sort his wall by one method,
crouch below and it will fall.

Like eyes on a newborn pup,
He takes a breath then through the blood,
through the sloshy gelatin wall.

The time is now to stoop and stop,
He's breathless as an Idaho spud,
won't again hear his mommy call.

Roxxxy Mounts the Wall (Attempt Two)

This is what the thunder said:
"I gots dis shizits, you'll see!"
Never the world be so buried as with her sight.

Her handbag wasn't stained but already red,
Mai Tai in hand, after double-shots went way in pee,
Click clicking fast feet, restrained by skirt tight,

Her face now flushes dead
within the berries, white truly,
and the town agrees it's a merrier night

Khunn Mounts the Wall (Atempt One)

There must be a way over this
get legs to carry somehow
insurmountable is just an expression

I come from Strom mountain
Where I made Rhunnd, the mountain goat, plummet
and gained my standing

but no firm ground here
and irrevocably covered in red
what, will these hands ne'er be clean?

The Berry Wall

Its tartness stings over the moment's next moments,
Towers miles high above the populace,
Penetrated by laundry stains thickening blood.

Awash, they fall back on their rent,
Tardiness disqualifies them to race,
They determine: I can't climb it, who could?

Its juicy shadow falls over in torrents
Enveloping more those who won't move at any pace,
Once free, now only juicy goodness fills their blood.

Anchovy Sugar (with notes)

Sweet bitterness (desituated)
off the cob (this is here to keep it situated)
sighing like pain (desituated)
blood curdling pleasure (desituated)
scoarching wet sand (not quite situated)
parched oceans (desituated)
crying gladiators in pink pantyhose (very situated)
atomic uniform waves (desituated).

(Sweet comes from experience with sugar, honey, oranges . . .
Bitter from peelings, rindes, seeds . . .
Sighing from relaxing tensions . . .
Pain from tensions . . .
Parchement from thirst, lack of water . . .
Oceans from a lot of water waving . . .
Atoms from discrete units and science experiments showing atoms as a particle . . .
Waves from spread-out unincremental patterns and science experiments showing atoms as spread out. . .)

Night 2010

Orange sprays on top stone
blended though night's greys.
Street lights peer misty-eyed;
statued hydrants dissolve.
Every object transformed,
forgetful of daytime utility:
signals turn the wind
and roadways hold the map,
monuments of the dead.

Where have their users gone?
--Fled off day-to-day reality
to dreams, or fidgiting, tossing,
dreading tommorow's restless,
unerving marching,
with a deep-seated want to ruin
these the waiting monuments.

No Reasons and Nothing to Sing About

Breathing gets more difficult,
oceans of sounds line up
to drop down and sulk,
thyroid demands to be ripped out,
breathing gets more difficult,
neck crackling at adjustment,
pain that says never move,
laughing in adjestment,
stiff legs by strained steps,
popping out hairs spent,
breathing all too difficult.

The turning world turns
on more expedient routes.
And all the fluid passing
takes my envious eyes
to curse rancid destruction
in spit spotted breaths.
Breathing far more difficult,
the turning world turns
in casual resentment.

Fountain Out Blinds

They behold in their own
what they don't know
"This, is true"
off the rabble
the broken hums
of midnight streets
awaits the eyes and feathers
to that quiet
which sees all.

No diffidence,
no hesitence

Have I confidence in
pang urges abilities
to connect with what is again?

Queen urns
breaking through
the green of April hills
and the blue of oceans
with blood in vats,
we thought of mounting walls
but are cooling
in broken passion.

Halving lives.

More Than Silence

When sound subsides to reverberations
That fill between the forms of eons,
One's never deafened, but treads on fuller ground
A thousand-mile-away pet back to its loved one found,
Or a sensing of signals of the comming, quaking ground,
Expanding through present fluid oboes.

All Eyes Are Watching

With shoulders poised
ready to catch a football,
He takes the task of the room
by determined footfalls.

With a smirking grill
Stapled together except
in lifting soda for a sip,
He knows all know his precept.

Ah, the young, though none look,
still feel the omniscient
sanctioning every affect;
It will soon leave reminiscent.

But for now all eyes are watching,
the omniscient rests on him
to please each smirk, shirade, affect,
to prime decay nascent therein.

Yeats

Fly and return,
the soundcaster,
in a digital stream.

Against the turn
to ceaseless chatter,
work anew some steam.

For our concerns
And yours differ
In no great degree,

But devices learn
To disseminate and offer
a plastic commune dream.

So fly and return,
the soundcaster,
in a digital stream,

through ears and eyes,
your century's works's
more than here can glean.