Saturday, April 16, 2011

another broken sonnet

how i wish you were here
and she wishes you were there
which is her here. and whose will prevail
if it's choices you must make?

if it's choices, one was already made.
i think it's to that you should stick
if we can't be one in this shade
we 'll make another pretty quick.

or at least it seems that way. i once
believed in soul mates, forever through
eternity. now i know the ssecret punch
is you are me and i am you.

outside,  nostalgia of spring
ripens quick. she sprouts, a thick
scent, fleeting. bees  aflowering--
all that you miss, faced with two sticks.

i withdraw the wish i had, you
and i together. since you made

commitment there, return and woo
me later. don't sow seeds of hate-

between two strands of love you weave
more love, so that it never leaves.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

road trip in no particular order

the black mountain skool of

the last cherry blossom

georgia guideposts. welcome to your nwo

the trees just POP. goodbye north carolina
trail of tears begins here.
gotcha covered
ahhh the mountains...

and switzerland.

Thursday, April 07, 2011

justinius on the riverbank

i do not know if the stories
are true. plausibility
writes itself in his sad sorries
their flowering futility

sheltered, perhaps, by a borrowed tarp
at the river's edge.  a hatchet
and a cell phone complete the art
of living homeless, unattached.

but just as true could be the scene
where bored and servant to my meme
he sits at home, like every day
dealing blame   cards with  donkey bray

precision, piercing mom's ears while
skirting my derision, weavng
adventures of escape in style
criminalized, pushed  to leaving.

does he play on my sympathy
parade his scars,  pain's memories?
expect  my guillibility?
live agoraphobic glories?

 embers, he says, are the warmest
part of the fire.  phone has one bar
  left. my blanket's in the pampas.
she didn't give me back the car.

Tuesday, April 05, 2011

a pea in a pod

little wrinkled, little mis
shapen. still, green like spring.

today's weather calls for more
take an umbrella and a storm shelter
batten all hatchlings, secure all professions.

this silliness expands and contracts
forms nano connections, like time
through a player piano. the cat looks
up in terror at what she's done

then walks away, meaning as if.
five more styles wave from the catwalk
but  the pod stays classic, hiding
any differences behind a thin strip
waiting to be unzips.

Monday, April 04, 2011

chiron in the house of self healing

all the doors are open
on either side of the toroid
which stretches the length of the night
sky. he mutters to himself, chewing
on his long lustrous tail. which
one shall i chose? i don't know
what i have, but i think i have
them all.

ahh dear chiron, you do, you do.


she beckons from outside
a door just round the curve
up ahead, can you see her?
your twin, your sister, your love.
go on, embrace her. as real as anything
else: an ass, a star, a hand.


thirteen openings between you
the same passage, the same result, becoming
mirror and self.


there was some plan, you think
some overarching equation which placed you
and them in the same time period. if you only hadn't
hidden it from yourself, beeblebrox, you would know
what it is you wanted. what did you want, again?

i want to know
if i'll be reading the same mythologies
in different skins a trillion years from now

and still not getting it.


i jump into your skin
recognise the darts, the aim,
the arrow thru space. why
suspension and movement are your art.

you want to hide your heart.

did it hurt boo boo?
do you understand the power of fire
can you, finally, respect it
enough to let it use you?


she lights the pipe
allows a certain dissolve.
wants to join the outer perspective
feels the teeming bubbles, hither thither
connected by strings/ broken in twos.

if she could jump into your eyes
for a moment. the double exposure
the quest for power, instead of just being.

that is god's disease.   heal thyself. jeeze.


keystrokes take on mysticism
the comet's forerunner, the mane as tail
half beast half man, defecating in the dark
a beautiful light anticipating arrival
the annihilation as she gobbles me up
in her glorious transformation
an integration to the whole thru





i sense a pattern
you have tried many doors
wondering why they do not close
behind you.   there is one or two  you've shut
yourself, but they reopen with attention
intent participation.


ah chiron, my beauty, my love, my teacher, my own.
rest a spell. look into your eyes and tell me
what makes you run? become
a student again, a student of fun.

hah. fun. wtf?

fun has its price, pain in other
paid by brother, bother, sister, lover

these are self as much as thee
chiron, you must learn to plea.

what? why?
just for the rhyme?


she slams the door on the new moon.
notices her lack of penis. wonders which door
 way took that. the doors creep
open again
trying to pinpoint her with telescopes
and openings. fun? fun?

see her run.


more to come.

Saturday, April 02, 2011

haven't done an app in while

 but i went to this one, pasted an essay on american psycho and found out

I write like
Vladimir Nabokov
I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!


then i pasted an essay on the middle east rebellion and found

I write like
David Foster Wallace
I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

now i post a poem and

I write like
Cory Doctorow
I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

and with missing enfolding electrodynamics i once again write like the dead mr wallace.

who lived the life i wanted
except for the depressive part.