Productivity

Desk.
Where wrest
papers in a mess.

Ink.
Watch run
smudge
and loose what
was signified.

Words.
Where awareness
shifts head
to leave
to old maid's
dustbin
ink and desk.

Possibility

Reduce, reduce, nihil.
Emerge from nothing's
everything vatal.

So the greens
in every shade,
thoughts imaterial
not found in a count
but inbetween
every counted one.

Stretched-out mind
hovers within,
guiding this range

to the tastes,
give me once more variety,
sweet, one's better than others,
sour after bitter,
long for the flying hot
for chilled experience.

So possibility trumpets,
but a final end of time
if it's not impossible it someday fade.

The Isolated Particle

Father's arms around, he's already reving his feet.
Once let go, he's floored the red oak door
Out to blossoming day, greens, gray and silver cars,
Wind that would toss a tangerine his way up the street,
And a thousand miles behind in uproar.

Well the ice strikes, and here come the knocks
Along one side and the other upon identical doors
And sometimes hailing hands to passing cars,
Or wandering for heat in front of locks,
For greens, for fruit, for substantial what-fors.

As a modern faun, or, alien bright,
Housholds now behold this thing
Much out of reach, and unsituated
Holding heat and fruit night by night
Reduced to a sugary, glowing orange ring.

Hands Full of Stuff

Eeking its way to housetops,
Light throws motors buzzing out front,
Bags in hand, to swarm the gatekeepers
Unlatching at 8.

What propful day awaits?

Into the Artifice of Eternity

One laments temporal holds
On us that grey our land,
Yet in the fast steps of another show,
Our own once ripe.

My hobbling skeleton
Motions flies and ants
At the first juice drops.
The Snapping twigs of bursting life
Attenuate contrapuntal misery.

Anything but changing seasons:
Florid pills down my gull, I'll driftaway,
Kill my time to the one unchanging.

Soaking up Decay

Twenty dollars lies face-down in a gutter,
half ink and sand, soaking the afternoon.
Shriveled money has lately
Spread over a rising quarter moon.

There sitting with his sign, a Vet. in rags
Lets on that all's typical,
And past the intersection go clerks in flimsy slacks
To whole stores of typical.

Soon large blasts join
Gunpowder air to rusty tail-pipes,
And leaves shower the streets
Between drooping chins and taillights.

Banks disintegrated with most their leaves
That swirl round the nodding sorters,
Yet the mechanism still ho-heaves.

Eyes outside Carl's Jr. open to shakes in hand.
Their roaring skates tear the ordered commotion,
Always laughing at the to-and-fro around.

It Wasn't Me

"Use your brain!" once you said
Taking over the wash to show
How it's done with eyes and hands.

What matter what day it was?
Valentine's, as any Sunday slow,
I rushed out for your card.

And enough about it. I've renounced it
with your moods. No comprendo?
I'm not learning that language!

An atmosphere invents itself
between the bits revealed as once,
"Stay away!" And so it wasn't me,
I made no cliches this Valentine's.