Wounds heal like
hell frozen over--
abstracted blood
never blends in
with the territory
fast enough.
Your long, sharp,
superintelligent
fingernails stake
their claim.
Always repeating:
'oh you poor thing'...
while picking away.

a grain of sand,

on some desert

night.

decided to expand

just enough.

to become a fisher's

ice hole in the Artic...

on some day.

where it remained

dark.

So here's the mature
expression of a catch
flopping on deck.
Who could bear the
promise of more, from
where this one came?
Grin, multitudinous and
mawkish--an ungraspable
slick silver verse stuck to
puckering lips.
A face grown flat, by roles
played in common waves,
eyes placed for scanning
both sides of the sea.
You've even succeeded in
making Jesus seem fishy.

i attended the funeral of an angel--

not an extraordinarily virtuous human

being, but an angel.

it lie there as a solid beam of light.

wings condensed to a blinding soar.

then the demonic condolences came

rolling in, as the space around that

beam of light transfigured.

thick and hard...the nausea of no way

home, was captured by a flailing incense.

that flowed downward, emitting no scent.

hemmed in by rain,

umbrella's ferrule signals

this silent streak.

bolder than wheels on wet

black streets, mind and body

fall for one another.

flashing pins in drop, who

never register a top or bottom.

this again is spring, in the way

of this world, brought to the

surface to be put in phase for

another.

the street does not wait for

crossing, it'll be crossed--because I

believe there's somewhere I need

to be.

so do flowers.

beyond the double-edged

sword,

there's no circle's flashing

wield.

to recreate what is beheaded,

if the strike is decisive.

Cut outs of printed numbers, surgical

finesses--scotch taped all over a wall.

The feeding schedule of the energy that

arranged them--their repetitive valuation

of motions.

A Dada poem about number theory,

Hugo Ball not by name.

A signifying wall of superficial blemishes,

dyed by the aura of its occupant, the

open-zero resilience of a wall.

A Turin-like flash treatment, that keeps

it from dilapidation.

A numbingly drafty room, a man in a

mink fur coat--smelling of frictional

accounts.

Listens to a storm in parts, between radio

stations--the relevant monster of the

twentieth century.

The Olay of a blowing curtain, thousands

of miles away--its pending atmosphere.

He looks a little like himself, a little like

the people that perceive him--& a lot like

the current atmosphere.

As he wipes the shiny germs of knife on

his fur coat--then slices into a tomato.

An infernal balance of membranous pulp,

a twin theory.

a shale-brittle afternoon hoses

down the pathways of its

April Garden, with a thin smoke.

a single cloud stretched to a wisping

spark that aches.

landward oceans sinking underground--

helped skyward.

color to the everchanging perceiver--

for no sake of its own.

never to recollect what it is called as

if by name.

marked roots from the flip glaze of

calendar years.

he knows it as something emotions

are herded into--like savage first contact.

that blurs to protect identity, blocky

skintones discombobulating

b movie shame.

highjacked without being plastered

everywhere.

or the naked motions that play catch-up

behind glass shower doors, as if wrestling

with a dagger.

not necessarily protecting identity--but

what comes after it.

much like initial snow that stalls right

above the ground--for an entire winter.

to be walked through with the fragile

care of floating styrofoam.

so gravity can anticipate itself & maybe

understand.

what happens when

two people, the floundering other--

are caught staring at something

vague as life?

riddled with the holes of damnation,

to see through forgiveness.

to hold on to such a connection a

moment more, might mean death.

it's so easy, but so hard to see--imagine

being seen, if you can...

Today I heard a song in passing--
newly dazed lights doo-wopping,
whiney vibratory strings caught
in throaty cries.
Pausing for station identification
on a new planet.
Incessant preciousness tripping
over the fact of a tiny body.
You were born atop a storefront's
air conditioner, I never saw baby
pigeons in New York City before.
Some people here call them flying
rats, **** em--happy belated birthday.

the walls

fold neatly

like a napkin

on a  prepared

table.

spoons resting

more indifferently

than knives that

will cut meat.

in 2008, i found myself

in a disgustingly sterile

non-rustic library in:

Jackson Heights Queens.

think a toolshed meeting a

hospital.

on an exceedingly poignant

whim, i cracked open a glossy edition

of: Rolling Stone.

encountering an article on the passing

of the late great: David Foster Wallace.

i tore out the article, & shoved it in my

pocket for a deeper read.

having dealt meditational

applications of paint to the  

foregoing walls of a bedroom.

a more youthy white cracked

open over aging eggshell.

all the same, as if uniformly

sheen.

try as it may, a paint roller leaves

a frumpy stripe from corner to

ceiling.

begging for brushwork.

it's an intimate little chat with

striving perfectibility.

a blind master's

rainbow-respirations

cover a forest of bones.

overseeing future

incarnations.

he is highly reverenced

by where even space

cannot enter.

what this is,

the enough of

the enough.

Quarantining.

(forty days in or out).

we have come between

ourselves.

judgement dying all over this place.

blessed be.