object ti fi cation

"to treat someone as an an object is to behave with them as an undertaker".

emil cioran


just got my latest brand new copy of the trouble with being born i used to have 2 others. one, i gave away in a contest, the other my son lost at school. to this day i think a teacher found it and confiscated it. i had numbers written in that book. phrases underlined, pages turned down.

now it's like i don't even need to read it again, but i want to have it. it's a necklace i pull from that seventies collection and put on when i'm not going anywhere, but think i might like to.



exercises in objectification. why would anyone need that? maybe to create distance, so that opinion or its lack can not wound one?




i used to read most profiles with an eye towards the individual. but so many of them wear the standard memes. i don't think the people writing them really want their individualism to stand out. and how bout those that post only a pic and think that's enough to find ...well, whatever it is they're looking for.

so now i find myself scanning just pictures first. i guess that's the idea behind quick match. a li'l view of the person, superficial, type ing. i think i'm disassociating from the entire process because the rejection rate is awfully high. the cliche of hay and stacks. some bit of metal promised within, possibly magnetised to my frequency. the frogs mulitply and the princesses line up like clones.

romance as the object dies in utero. a friend with benefits is beginning to sound ideal.

rain song

i visited the past today
made the present a conquest
future a sacrifice to the possible.

epiphanies fall, a light sprinkle.
if i stand here for a while

long enough
i'm soaked thru.

i can't tell where the clouds begin
but i don't want them to end. my grass
is so dry. humps of glue, patches of envy.


the quiet of water in my ears.
the dissolution of /my/ into the skin

of spring. holding on particular
letting go retricular.

some washout at thirty leagues
some fade of a moment
some lake, gathering.



i say your face today. it was chirring
like wings on a thatched roof. as usual
you were more beautiful as words.































&^&%%%















my house of id
dropping into rightful entropy.
unmade bed. tantalizing underthings
turn into roaches and clips.
laughter as the cosmic emetic.


the puppet twists her wires, so jerky.
feed the ping. sauce de roule. why
did you never learn french. now it's too
late and all those things you meant to do
finally escaped.


the way the burn is iron. e.

irony burns. blister maker.
i got my income tax money today.

i could pay off so many things.
or buy a new computer.
kinda wanna mac but
the thought makes me twitch
like a finger tied to a stiff string.

maybe it's raining somewhere
i'll get coffee for lunch
as celebration for the way trucks
have lots of tires and they hiss when wet.

intimate

does anyone look up
words in the dictionary anymore?
there are 13 definitions
only one which mingles body
fluids. how can we ignore
the scope of the word
distill it down to taking off
clothes? intimacy definitely includes
sexual relations but is not exclusive to that

the nuances are important. but the online
euphemism for sex doesn't allow these
nuances. all encounters are painted
the same. of course i know the difference
between making love and fucking. i, like
any educated person, have been party
to both, as well the interchange
of dinner ho, date rape,
soul rape, slut. but you
don't want to know these intimate
details, you don't want to visit
the consequences of your/my
actions. my last short term
relationship-almost 2 years but
not quite, not quite
18 months, a more
or less
sit
u
a
tion

fraught with masks, an aDd
eliptical void, a game serial surreal
a construction of who might have been
in different timez indifferent people
a fire full of leaves. goodbying in goodbuys
comparison shopping, object this fie fiddle dee
but i thought there was love.
i finally know the difference from lust.












































































































85968



took me long enough



























































*&(*&





if i show you my dreams

watermelons dashed on the hard streets
of learn your crucible then you might
understand my choices, not judge
lest you be a...






libra. if you don't believe in those things
i don't think we'd get along.

































8()(*



you said idaho.
something about the west
meeting halfway. a two year's
journey despite modern transportation.






















()

fascinated by the sybil
you seek to become her
and frighten yourself back
to one stasis.





































*()(&&&














i began this with you in mind
depraved circumstands between you &
the dreams you slaughtered
with lack of ambition. how novelty
wore off so soon. sometimes a child
can teach us to bloom.
















&









sometimes a child will lead us to doom.









































*(&









it's more than kind of our choice.
it's a point of view.





i can't stress that enough.
one day, if you're lucky the stress
will make the break.




































*()(&*















it's ok if you couldn't love me.
but learn to tell the difference.
don't say it till you mean it

chemistry i s vo li

til









e

fade

no longer full of real
i am the mystery behind
your desire. will i do
you or do i will you and
will i become the smell
of passing breeze

there is so much ocean here--
larger than a beach. your empty
house is a terrarium with an empty
terrarium built into the wall
between where you dine alone
and where you love to smoke
crack, with the cat
channel on your five hdtv flat
screens, empty lap seeking
fullness. for a change up you

have your dvds. for a change up
you have steak and potatoes as opposed
to steak and fries. the asparagus
is not touched. on your wall a picture
of you, in your wallet your dead
wife. cancer is the explanation.

i cannot understand why is was n
before the tongue went rough
as a cat, . except to say god
works in mysterious ways.

sinister puppet

i could use strings
manipulate fingers,

ventriloquise the sermon
for the master. his mouth

would move in time to my words.
the words would gain meaning

in her mind. the play would
go on . instead i

keep hope in my inbox
so that you won't write.

in this way, i repeat
again destiny's defeat.

the writer disappears

Staring at yourself in the hologram,
you bend your head a little, change
the angle of your looking


barely, and the scene, the
shrouded blanket-covered
figure


late night traffic of partygoers
going home, and third shift
coming in, missed



the jumper ,contemplating
the angle of the water. he took out his
cell phone and delivered a missile
to the one he hated most.

second shift took the train
back to their empty apartments
bleak streets with last minute appointments
tumbled across like fall leaves, hurrying.

he called her crying about losing everything
except the will to suicide. she had no time
she had to be with her own son, so he told her
how he was sorry that he'd loved her
wrongly. he pulled her heart from the confines
of suck it up, did a li'l jig then
stuck it back inside. passion was playing
his tune, he never understood timing






























()(_)(_)








so her son reaches out
and drags him by the hair
lost and vampiric, we don't know
why death won't take him.
rolling a jeep down a hillside
should be enough . but now he's
hoofing it, got a sabotage to catch up with.
the jack daniels rots in the kitchen cabinet.
she resolves that to love her
is to crack open at your core.















8()(&&


















he said he loved her
and he believed it.
shells and trinkets fell from
his pockets. he bent to pick
them up and she receded
to the upper landing. above him
she dropped small beads of sweat
and rosin onto his head. he saw her
again, past where they stopped
touching, and he loved her.
he saw her again and stopped
loving her a moment later.
but he loved her. then came a new room.
this room he loved as well. sealed
lips and rushing water. lighting candles

they crawl up under the cloverleaf exit
rise of concrete, up at the very top right below the
girders of the freeway, the concrete levels off,
and you have used a couple large moving boxes
made out of cardboard, and some blankets
and a pillow of old shirts in a shopping plastic bag


you welcome them, newest citizens
of the underpass. she is older than you expected
from the way he'd talked earlier. he's younger
than your son. they huddle against the cold
that has run through their story
since they began to write it. you can tell
they're used to explaining so you ask
no questions. she leans against the concrete
the angle is like the recliner in your apartment
and you find yourself wanting a remote.
he slides into the crook of her arm
they curl into do not enter. you decide
to take a walk.









































*()*&



the partygoers are coming home now.
heel click a bit wobbly, ties a bit loose.
she stumbles over smashed metal
jumbled keys and cyanide laced computer chips.
the dangling legs from before
aren't there anymore. not that she'd noticed.
he clutches her around the waist to keep
her from falling and they both twist
to the ground, landing in a tangle of crinoline
and silk. when they look up, his legs
have reappeared, sighing, a pendulum
in the wind.












Not just her lime hair,
itches like ice cream dripped
on skin. Not just the
parable of the poison dart umbrella,
she knows if she keeps writing,
the story won't end. so she keeps writing.
he's taking the pills again, making erowid
calculations. he's throwing the pills
into his briefcase to take into his next
best life. the path is opening. the light
comes in rays around the cracks
your typical fear fraught door assaulting
scene . their color resembles her hair
she falls asleep and the world does not.

disco delight

the beauty of mechanics and mirrors











inside the rotunda at the tampa convention center
transfixed by the feel of water on marble
i look homeless. the conventioneers exit
and ignore me, hoping i will not ask them
for spare change. there is nothing
i want from them but their
absence. i think of the way
you miss the point, over and over.







and the way i do. fleeting
like nabokov's marriage
or jellyfish on a wave
the grip of stars, lost
to blind slippage. a camera
unfocused. a new beginning
wrested from the remnants of the last.

so be it

we could have been so real.
they would have seen us, a warm glow
under the clouds making love to tomorrow.

instead we are stone and anvil
instead we are martyr and pyre
beat and lyre, bone and pulvil.
























































































































































*((&&&


the sacrifices risen to god on smoke
the flesh becoming bread. a host of miraculous
conception. cannibalistic forethought
and vegetarian hindsight.

let us sleep.






















*()&&&




















































)(^^^



i wanted memory to reboot.
but it just keeps hanging onto the surface
as if carved in there. sometimes
if enough times go by
they cover themselves with a patina
resembling a new fate. one must
make thanks to the thinks that arise






















89&





thanks



























































































(&&&&

















dude, did you know they have suits
that let you fly now? for like minutes at a time.

how cool is that?































































































()&*&&









why hold on
the stuff of stars
needs to fall
into a small point
meld into collaboration
blend into radiation
the center of burning
exploding
into a new light

bubbling granules of super hot gas

critical helios
what will you do with
a philosophy major? teach
my son. teach. so i got
this chance
and i'm not gonna
blow it. virtual silence
in the downtown messages.
disco ball spin roundy round
with the telescoping pole.
i have my camera you have yours
it's not so bad when you remember
to click the shutter. nobody
has to read plato anymore.
the parable of the cave
is a goddamn cliche.

philosophy is an evolutionary process
and the fly is a dragon with spit in its veins.







*()&&





the roil of frances in your surface
dancing a major catechism , quick angels
and thin needles fountain with each other
in the spots where last orchids bloom.
a my spacey astronaut on path to the light.
maybe you just never knew how to last
till morning, a host of moths dwarf
the crying you'll do when epiphanies
are not enough to save you.
















*Y(*Y







the ways of the ocean are vast
and deep. you can be sonar in her ears
or just ride the surface. it's all
in the color of your eyes.
you ride alone to the other side.
lookin good, silhouetted
against the sunrise. snap.
put it in a box. it'll melt in the first
rays that touch the inside of her thigh.











*()))






no, it was not pedestrian enough.
hot sidewalk in the summer heat. wavery
like where ultraviolet meets infrared.
mirages are for the ghosts of other universes.

she remembers that time in the desert
where an adobe house with no running
water made love to their children.
sandy feet and cactus bloom in their hair.

scorpions, tamed and precocious in the lawn.
the last rays come on the last of them
lingering in the light leftover from her eyes.
a starling in the evening sky, headed far

from the house of outstretched hands
turns, dips, turns again, toward the mountains
rising over the dusty sea for the last first time.

soul raper

i wanted to love you when you were the one
i was in my room alone
practicing guitar, everyone
offered me bodies but no one
could mark my words. you,
my athena dream , i had you
tied to the bedpost but you wouldn't
stay. every girl i used to know
felt like that for a minute.
i meant it when i said never like you.
i'm really something you told me.
but what? the tight bike
comes back to me, the curve of connery,
the pebble that sticks in my shoe.
don't i deserve a little of this
bread pudding too? can you really blame me
for taking it all?

prison of light

in midmorning air , threes burst from stick
figures. spring arriving a few weeks early
should be scarey, but mostly it's like transforming
dark matter to bold strokes of goodbyes,
a star dancing with a black hole.

look into the vortex spinning a bit off axis now
the solid ether no one sees, the fish we are, swimming.
imagine being one of those aliens getting
caught in your pincers. no wonder they stick a needle
in my eye. listen. i wanted to love you this time.
i kept telling you about the way the canal was full
and ducks floated on top. but all you could see was drowned
kids and pity. so you revert to what
i 'll never know. something i
believe i said first? if
we could write boldly as jack about
gheyfer translastions of typose into prose,
or lolita fantasies, maybe the red laptop
dance i never sent back to the factory, then
you and i might have made
john and yoko look like amateurs.
i didn't know you thin
but what we had was from opposite sides of the sky.
and you're just fine with that. reboot. i won't
be the one giving
you new ram space to play with. sometimes i
am way more than ok with that.
like a day without needles
warmly floating in a sky, thru the clouds,
pinning the sea with their beauty.

the snake that wanted to be a dragon

snake was disturbed by the way
people looked at him, belly down,
in the grass. one day he heard
a story of a dragon from chinese travelers
while he hid under a rock. he loved
the way they described the dragon's huge
insatiable mouth, the way it ate air
and belched out fire. he was fascinated
by its ability to fly. he salivated on the thought
of virgins sacrificed, but the thing he loved most
about the dragon was the way it hoarded gold
and jewels. he resolved to become a dragon
then and there. he slithered over to the chinese
traders and crawled in their money pouch
lying in wait. the gold felt good on his skin.
soon, in a nearby village
the traders stopped for supplies. one reached in
the bag to pay and the python struck.

not being venemous, the merchant did not die.
instead he reached in the bag and dragged the snake out.
he raised his wand to strike it dead but the snake
began to cry. oh please don't kill me, it said.
i have been dealt a rotten hand in this life
and when i heard your tale of the dragon
i merely wanted to improve my lot. the traders
were shrewed businessmen. they recognised
that a talking snake would probably fetch a nice
price at the circus, so they didn't kill it.

instead they made a cage of chiken wire and said
to the serpent, if you make your home in there, we
know a way to turn you into a dragon. the serpent
was thirlled and moved right in.

now the traders hatched a plan between them.
since they were travelling between settlements
why sell the snake to the circus. they could make
money on it for very little investment. all they needed
were some wings and way to get the python to
breathe fire. the woman trader, whose name was cho lin,
desinged and made several pairs of wings. the male
trader, with the name jin lin, began collecting fire ants.
they knew that snakes are devious creatures, so they
had to be very careful with their storey if they wanted to make money.
the best liars are convinced
of their own stories after all
and the more devious the being, the more easily
they themselves are decieved for they believe
that everyone else is the fool.

"while is true that dragons can breathe air and belch fire
that is only the adult dragons" they told the python. "young
baby dragons--of which you might
be one, in reality,
it's hard to say--have to train
themselves how to hold fire in
their bellies. they eat fire ants mixed
with alcohol exclusively. also they
have a candle lit at all times
to remind them of the fire spirit. we will provide these to you
for two weeks. if you sprout wings,
then you are a dragon. if not, we will
have to set you free as we can't afford to feed you"

the snake said to the traders "well, i don't really like ants.
and what is alcohol? will it fill me up?
i'll try it for two weeks on one condition. "

the traders readily agreed to let the snake
have his cage lined with gold coins. for one thing,
they thought it would give the show they were planning
a more believable backdrop and they even
threw in some semi precious stones for color and balance.
of course the coins were only copper
but the snake couldn't tell the difference because the lins
had polished them till they gleamed. he loved
to sit on them all day, stuffed them between
his scales, licked them with his tongue.
the fire ants were another
matter. they annoyed him
when they survived the cheap beer .




but he ate them anyway. every day the lins burnt
a candle in the snake's cage and every night
the snake went to sleep hoping to wake up with wings.
the alcohol was having its effect on him. he felt
a burning in his stomach, he was always hungry
and sleepy and he complained of it bitterly.
after the first week, cho lin
waited for him to sleep and pushed small sharpened
sticks into his scales. when he woke the next morning
he cried in pain. cho lin said "let me feel your back.
what this then?" she said with surprise when she ran
her hand over his scales. "it feels like something's growing."
she gave him his morning beer and ants and lit a candle.
"i have heard that fire begins earlier than wings. come
here and talk into the candle." the snake slithered
over to the small flame and said "what do you.."
with the first what, the alcohol in the beer did its job
and a small flame seemed to leap from his mouth.
he opened wider and blew harder and more flame
erupted. "am i really a dragon?" he questioned outloud.
"it appears that way" said cho lin. each day after that
cho lin would perform the same ritual and encourage
the snake to drink more beer and ants.

now,beer and ants aren't very good food
for a python. they need meat. but the python
never really had an appetite because the beer
kept his stomach full. it did however, cause
his thinking skills some problems. it took
him a few more days to realize that the fire
wouldn't come out of his mouth without
being in front of the candle. when he questioned
jin lin about it, the wiley trader said "every
dragon needs its own firestarter in his belly.
that's why they swallow jewels, to find
out which special one will start their fire."

"is it always a jewel?" the serpent asked.
he loved the gleam of the coins in his cage
and thought their gold looked more like fire
than any of the jewels. "oh no," jin replied
noticing the longing in the snake's eye.
"sometimes it's metal."

every night when the snake went to sleep
cho lin would remove the knurled sticks
and replace them with a larger knurl. in
this way the snake thought his wing buds
were getting larger. cho lin assured him
that he would be getting his wings any day
now. snake thought about the firestarter
and decided to swallow one of the gold coins
to see if it would work.he loved the way
it felt as it slid down his throat
but when he tried to speak in flame
he still had to be in front of the candle.
still he was on his way to being a full
fledged dragon!

now jin lin was a flute player. the night
before cho was to put the first pair of small wings
into the snake's back, he said to his sister
maybe we could teach the snake to sing.
cho said, maybe so. you could try. you know
she mused, "he should have a name."
"indeed" said jin. "what shall we name him?"
"i've always liked the name rikrik." said cho.
"mmmm rikrik. yes, that's good. it sounds like
the scales on his belly when he rolls
over those coppers in his cage. i think
we should bill him as rikrik, the serenading
serpent."
"who thinks he is a dragon" giggled cho
lin, and tired out the slogan "come see
rikrik the singing serpent. who thinks
he is a dragon. if only he
had hands to play the lute. " she laughed
and her brother joined in "maybe you
could fake him some" he chuckled.
"only if the sticks were as sharp as those
fangs of his." she said and rubbed her hand
where the snake had bitten her.



to be continued

i've always loved this budha story

scorpion wanted to cross the river
so he asked the master to carry him
the master picked up the scorpion
and it bit him. so he dropped it.
why don't you kill it asked his student.
it's his nature to bite said the budha
i can't kill something for doing what comes
naturally.



or something like that.

walking, feet, boots

i won a foot massage two
weeks ago from you by answering a poetry trivia
question at the open mic. tonite
the drums were fungible, ice in spring rivers.
i kept cracklin to the same beat.
magic was across the fire from me, laying down
africa and celts. red hair, irish, superb
she says you are a diamond and i look at you fondly
say yes he is. later she speaks of witches
and the need for music. the spells her grandmothers
sisters cast. later she sings about walkin
boots, all nancy eyes for you only. i feel dismissal
unsheathed claws sub audible hiss. undeliverable
this evening she assumes the posture of ownership
and i relinquish without protest, barely,
just barely understanding her boots are meant for me.

the grimm's fairy tale ending

he ran swiftly, as he had in his
youth, he ran thru the gateposts
and so the yoke remained anchored
around his neck, but the dust
has made it lighter, he's able to lift
his head and far in the distance
he sees the mountains. the butterfly
in his ear urges him on with a song
of green rye, bright light, the air's
tenor at the mountaintop. his cloven hooves
barely touch the ground, her dust
is a blanket between them and gravity.
she singing of rooftops and the cold snows
of winter as he approaches the manger and he's
reminded of the farmer who comes each night
with hay and a friendly word, the way his coat
stays dry under those eaves. he slows
and says to her, let's stop
here for the evening, turns into
the doorway. the creak of the yoke
as he bends to the trough drowns
her weakened protests, her song
is like wind thru the grass . we'll
rest now, he tells her, you're tired
and i'm tired, this yoke is heavier
than i thought. sleep, yes, sleep
my little miracle. during the night
the dust falls from his head, from
between the ridges of his horns
from his nose. in the morning he wakes
to find a pile of colors beside the husk
of a caterpillar and thinks how odd it is
that there is a piece of his yoke
missing, wonders if the caterpillar
feasted and, not being a termite, purged
and the missing slice of wood
is the colorful dust on the floor.

not everything i write is about you

but this one is.

you talk of putting dead
love in a box, burying it
maybe, like a goldfish or
a hamster, waiting until
you're brave enough to pull it out
again. so let's take a time
travel and open it now, see what it
looks like, those tiny bones, traces
of scales, patches of fur,
little empty skull, flesh gone
to dust. you think love
will fare any better?
out of the light, out of air you bury
it alive, because love doesn't die
it transforms. and mine for you
is, i hope, transforming to
indifference. as long as i don't touch
you, i'm safe. and you make that very
easy since this box is dark, no holes
no com device, scotty scotty can u beam me
a way out of this thing, did he bury it
in the ground too, omg i think i'm suffocating i
want to know why you didn't just
kill me too?
































)(***



it's so dark in here
but worse is when you
push me around, move me
from one place to the next
open the lid and peek in.
the light is blinding, please
turn it off. oh don't
please don't stick your finger
in here can't you see the skin
can't take another jolt? just
let me sleep and forget
the way sky tastes.





























()**)






what's in this box, dad?
hmm, i don't know. let me have a peek.
it's stuck tight, what could it be?
you know you have so much junk dad
why didn't you ever throw anything out?
oh, i wanted you boys to have these things
for your kids. here, give me that knife.
no, i'll do it dad, i don't want you to cut
yourself. oh!
what?
um, i think this should probably
go in the trash...
what?

what? let me look.


oh. this. yes, it was something i meant
to take out but i got preoccupied
and packed it away, then forgot i had it.

but dad, why would you save ...is it... a.... heart?
why would you put a heart in a box?

well, it was still beating when i put it in there.
i thought it would be useful. heh. funny how
i never needed it. isn't that the way it goes tho.
i bet if i'd thrown it out, i'd have needed it.
huh, she was wrong. i did just fine without it.

who was wrong dad?

what?

who is she?

did i say she? i guess it was. yeah
i remember now, she didn't have enough
patience.

lethe

thin you are
a pin
a trickle of blood
from a lancet, thin, red
capillaries outlined
through an eye ,
not a third, the third
is not
thin.


silence is not asking
sleep is for getting thicker
river ride river flow
this side is not that one
this ride is not a fat one

a prayer is smoke
risen from slaughter
forgiveness cobbled from want
desire given to the kindest god

to forget in the body is
an act of drift. forget this
body forget this stone
drop into the water, rest.

to forget in the body is
an act of stasis. forget this
wild air forget this wind
drop into the sky, float.

the keyhole's conspiracy

some things one must release. hope
is a caged bird, she beats against
a skeletal frame, its flesh burnt
then gnawed away & held
together with nanotubes and will .

frantic wings fibrillate
against a circle
of doors that neither
open nor shut.

i'm at the apex,
keeping her prison
together, searching
for the way
to be the key.






)(&&))))


source/sink

since you only hear me
when i say goodbye this time
i won't be the slam of silence just
the trickling away of a slow moving
brook in reverse, towards a pumped
dry spring.

unravelling

i broke the chain off my neck
tho you got it for me
valentines day one year.
our last, i believe.

it had a heart, but i couldn't stand
the way it kept beating in the hollow
of my neck when yours was already gone.

now it tarnishes in a box
and the delicate chain
is mangled, like a hairball
from one of the cats.


















*




somewhere in my inbox
is a virtual card
that represents the virtual
love you say you have for me.

it's a year old almost.
i haven't looked at it
but i haven't deleted it.

there is no fire that will burn it.
but if i run across it i'm going to turn it
into digital atoms, smashed over this
highway like the corpse of a possum
after sunrise traffic has passed.










()(*()*&&&







my eyes were prophets then
proclaiming a terrible god
out of lashes that parted
souls like moses.

we walked between what they saw
and what was past. you on that side
me on this. pretended we saw
the same promised land
for a while.

i blinked
and the water covered
us both.

















*(_)&&&&












in your ex
chair is where i try
to make sense of what you
awoke in me. no, not so much
sense as i try to make
dapples across the canvas
that empties nightly.


i don't have to take it apart
myself. i have beneficent gods
that do that kind of work for me.

in the morning there are traces
of brush imprinted
across stretched fabric
intertwining with my latest
efforts, distorting what i want
to say. in the end, i sign
my name with the link
that held the filligreed heart
next to my skin. i give you
the open space of a break
on an untangled chain.
how well your lips fit.

alpha embedded

i'm curling up
with the bills, snuggling
next to last month's
cable, interest rates
nibbling my toes. it's not
that i couldn't have got
in the same ridiculous mess
as she did, but i didn't.
should i be upset if you get
to keep your home?
the red walls, collected pieces
enamel faces, miniature facade
of a cafe in paris belong here.
why would a bank want that?
why wouldn't i want you to be comfortable
as long as we're giving money to rich
people who overextended their word, y not
extend that to our neighbors as well?
i know them, but what about the carpet baggers?























)(*&





i sleep with folded pieces
of paper. i wrap my future around
my ankles, ink licks at my calves.
i will wash the sheets when i feel
i'm done playing with mud.

the moon is a dynasty. she's cold
and bright. she's not taking
appointments right now.tired of changing
minds, the cycle of prayers, once this
then that. make up your mind
the shadows on the bike path hold
every answer, you court the race across
the lake, she hangs like a pendulum,
moving at the speed of wish, still
between the breasts of a corpse.

endangered species

me and my bff have been doing an autopsy on romance. i dunno tho, i think it may be premature. he says that when you kill the divine, you kill romance, because romance is the province of the divine. without divinity, the absurdities necessary for romance cannot ever come into being. he's been reading kierkegaard. i have not. i'd rather believe that the divine is still possible. and since i'm my own authority, if i believe then, absurdly, there is possibility.


i'm absurd therefore it is? wait, i think i'm mixing cause and effect here. absurdity may be needed for romance to flourish, especially in these times when it seems that our society has been hollowed out, but is romance always absurd?

in my experience it has been. to hope is almost always absurd, and certainly romantic. unrequited attraction seems to be the norm, rather than the other way around. normality does not allow for romantic love. head over heels is just another phrase for inversion. or somersaults. like what the heart seems to do when presented with the impossible...future.

direction unknown

once upon a time
a butterfly loved a ram who loved
to wear the yoke of the ox.

his horns curled around it
grew into the wood.
endearingly he called it home.
the yoke was a good yoke. it kept him
anchored away from the places he once
leapt. now that he was older he feard
the fall he'd taken once or twice. banged
head, torn muscles. the yoke
was a good yoke.
he forgot how to climb the mountains
he'd loved in his youth so he didn't
regret spending his time plowing
peasanty fields. once in a while
he'd try to lift his head,
when the breeze blew by
a piece of lint or the scent
of impatiens. the smell & movement
reminded him of patterns
on wings, dappled with light
like the shade
under the oak at lunch.

some days
the butterfly approached the ram.
circling his horns telling the story
of wild rye, in a meadow
over the mountain beyond the fields
he plowed. look up, look up she'd sing
but the yoke kept his head straight and
pointed to his work. on those days,
the yoke didn't feel like home. the ram
didn't like that feeling. he wanted his
manger, the wood slats for the roof, grain
in the trough. it filled his belly. kept him
warm when darkness was his only company.

but he loved the butterfly's
stories. he loved the way her voice
carried the smell of wild winds and gaps
between rocks, tasted sweet pine
saplings that grew in high places where
the yoke of blue sky was his only limit.
he loved the way she shimmied along the row
ahead of him, the company of her colors.
ah, i wish i could fly like you he'd say
when the row had been particularly long,
the stones he unearthed particularly heavy.

he wished he could remember what it was
he forgot. something about the lightness
of faith in his legs and the boulders
at the edge of cliffs.

butterfly remembered a story passed
from caterpillar to chrysalis. her silk
strings sang this lullabye as they tucked
her to sleep? when you wake, you'll have
the magic of flight in the dust on your
wings. she could no longer spin silk, her tongue
was too hollow. but she could dance
a shivaree over the ram's head. she tilted
and whirled and vibrated till she spun
fast as summer. dust fell off in jeweled
colors, over the head of the ram. he
tasted it and twitched, a film on his eyes
like joyful tears. the mountain appeared
for a moment. he shook his head in
disbelief so the mountain vanished.
the dust had fallen to the ground. i think i
need some more of that he asked the
butterfly. so she danced into tornado, she
danced into hurricane, she shivered
and shook her storm on top him. colors
rained into his eyes, the smell of leap
ran over his lips, he licked them..
oh my! he exclaimed , look, i think
i've swallowed a field of butterflies! he felt
so light he leapt. from one end of the plow
to the other.

when he sobered some, he
wondered why he couldnt hear her song
anymore. he walked carefully around
the plow, under the tree, across the field
looking for her vibrant wings. something
colorless fluttered beside a broken off piece
of yoke. he approached the objects, he mourned.
nuzzled transparent wings. the butterfly
had danced so hard to grant him flight,
she'd shaken all the dust
from her wings. she was too worn
to sing, but lifted her anthers ,
tickled his cold nose. he sneezed
and some dust came swirling
off his head and landed on her wings. she
giggled. stuck out her tongue and sucked
wet dust from his varicolored nose.
he sneezed again, more dust fell
on her. she gained some strength in her
legs and climbed past his nose, rested on
his horns.

now be still, said the ram. i'm
going to take us to the manger for
the night.

she crawled inside his ear and sang
i wont make it to the manger
i won't make it thru the night
the colors that will make me fly
are in the field of rye.

the ram thought about the heights
of the boulders at the mountain top.
he'd made the journey many times
as a youth, but not at all since
he'd taken the yoke. he feared
so much now: cliffs, falling, sweetness,
youth. the leap over the plow
was close to him, the way his ankles
felt strong, the cleft in his foot like
the hinge between wings. he aimed
for the gate where a strong post, spruce, and green
held it open and began to run.

mystery

gaah. guys are so
predictable. my current ad
has sparks and flames adorning
the four twenty ailses. there is no
picture. there is only a promise
of one if the prince piques
my interest. i am listed in
intimate encounters. and so the promise
of sex wins again. assholes.
and you claim you want love
and you claim you want a girl just like
the girl who married
well you can fuck your marriage
cuz you never believed in it
or cinderella and her freakin shoe
the reason it was made of glass
is so you could break it, after
you'd fucked her in it that is, those
clear stilettos shaping her ass
and calves to your desired height, just right
slip it in, claim the night, look,her feet
are off the ground on your pedestal
look at the strength in your penis.

whew. i bet the ad stops working now.
once you spill the magic, it ceases.
that's why names are so enigmatic

charting seas

there was nothing i wouldn't do for you
except nothing. couldn't not couldn't stop.
sliced a piece of mind out of hemp.
when the calls were thick honey in my comb
i washed them out, tangles and cloves,
down the drain. i was storm. you close

the door. batten the hatches. leaden cows
on the altar of the silent march.
you missed the gas chamber. turn back.

still howling round your windows.
almost gone now. almost blown down
to bermuda, sailing this time,
in a cabin cruiser with rum bunks.