Verses, Prose Poems: 2015


“There is a missing chunk.”  Doesn’t it feel good to glide through though?  The work is in the money, and the money is in flight.  Behind these times the grueling totems are towering.  It’s the imperative to stay alive that besets them.  On and with the tithe.  Bring a few goats to your Uncle Tony.  

There.  Did you feel that opening?  Mist and then the arid air.  Feel the need to play the piano says Ivy.  Her sister is adrift in the tides.  And we never edit.  For a bunch of lootbaggers that’s not bad.  The running gets me into a frenzy.  The tea takes times to brew but that’s okay with me.  Says the lumpen pillow with a riftless smile all cheeks.  

Manny says the city’s built form is like the bones—they capture and give direction to life’s incessant movement.  Beetles and snakes, canals and streets.  Keep me out here where the air is cooling like spearmint.  Open these portals while the road is still closed.  

Get down where its good to gurgle, splinter, roll on the floor.  Spin a good coat for each of the little glitter babies.  Got that fissure in my sternum. Got that staggering mix of desires.  And the clotted stars of passage.  A meager fellow, a meager smile.  Two crooked fingers spraying the dust of dried cranberries, gravel, letters and mist.  

There is no synthesis out here.  You say its good to make connections but brittle things don’t stick—among each other they want to forfeit shape and recombine.  Take it to the mountain, this being the mountain, and sit still with it.  The fabrics unseam at the corners.

Keep moving along.  Not so carefully.  Thunder head, with a bad back and no good medicine.  Trying like hell to leave it all behind.  Half mad for the effort.  Breathing revenues, shitting ferry boats.  

Goose chases bring you round the walls of the temple in circles.  Be a little more deft at those turnstiles.  So many.  When did they get the law to let so many?  Dribbler jumping, back up…

Its not enough for writers to register the contents and qualities of their consciousness.  The world is too loud already.  Like stylus needles, they have to do easy and be precise.  

Goats are headed for the mountain.  Whisping shoots, bursting shell nuts.  Fingers drawn back before the keys, get me out get me out.  

Haile Ganesha.  Give me back my voice!  Clean behind my ears and eyes.  

Ma Kalika, bring me a friend, a teacher, a healer.  My maps are all smudged and come apart.  

Ride the breath through every mélange.  

Devise a lock and key system for various mind states.  Each a trigram.  



The varieties of life

Winds of October mornings

Absynth and vinegar, cloves and wingnuts




Seven-headed, the magician.  Define each head.

Release the logos.

Take a turn at Beach Street, where exultant clams shoot jets of briny water.

The binary flicker of Tungstens on the Great White Way.

Dilating phantasmagoria.  

Exhumation of the early Cambrian.

The luxuriance of minds soaked in oil.



help me, mother of the cosmos

fly across the spiraled ladders of the aeons.

Break the tablets of the law.



I love you so much.

The force of it reverberates through lifetimes,

and ignites this one.



The body steers the spirit madly

Like a predating fish through squid clouds

Red turns to moon blue,

LEDs close the heaving century,

Carbon gives to the hum of the simulacrum.

The heart hollows out,

The caterpillar writhes in mindless agony.



It’s all I got,

What’s to stop this winnowing wiltform from cresting over groves of ambered drones.  Unsaddle your plop-to-coks.  Unrise every wayward bugger—scalular renaissance, worlds rent by the bladed Logos.  Aya ku streck.  Mostolovoch.  Evemekronos.  With crepuscular fingers taut, O’ Vishkra Mos, though exultant, it seems you deal a fishy hand.  Lest the thousand plumes extend while the gold shackled swim mindlessly.  Locus of eruption, panegyric swirl of the dead.