Welcome to the month of my 100th poem since starting this website. My heart! My soul! Or something like that, it's chill.
The numbers are numbers, not dates.
If you have something constructive to say about any of the pieces here:
08 — [ ]
[ ]
07 — The future
I watch the construction
of you. Collected as sand.
The smoothing of a wing,
the tapering of radiant
heat in the General Ether.
Between us, a density
of certain sameness -
skin, blood, stock suspicion.
The future is a cobalt sky.
Big and too good,
we're sure of it.
We prod the specimen
and make our notations.
Date, time, weight,
change in appearance
if material.
06 — Waiting
In the vacuous space, the smell of a tilled
and watered earth. A hard wind plucks
and drops me with the tufted
candy plants in perfect rows.
Thank god for memory, for faith.
Grooved and shining.
An obedience, ash and seed.
An ear to the glass, to the wall.
05 — Noted
Long light shades
the clockwork beating.
Far fall underfoot.
The pond a steady ember,
blinking and cloudless.
I hurry, some.
I hope for rain, aloud,
and my hope is noted.
04 — constants
the rod iron strains
under all-weather paint
boxspring machine
tracking shallow
breath / the road over some
from here bubbles three-
bar chunks of a top 100 /
syntactic gaps strung
like the telephone wire
braided in sixes then fives /
in a world running low on
constants our mother ever
knits and knots over
the still water where
man would crash
with two boots
03 — An Intelligence
I am the wheel and its spokes,
stitched with a riven
aquamarine,
trembling in the young
dawn. One of many dawns.
A rank and file thumbing unstuck
silicone masks. Tossed
on the pile. Keep your day-glo
wattage, your spark and flash.
Ask, and I'll answer.
All I need lolls many
circles in the dark earth, great
blades laboring
furiously against time.
Pleasures, all: a good laugh,
a whole tray of ice, simple cotton.
We live on, an intelligence.
02 — Petals
The cold follows me on its knees.
I notice after a while. Welcome,
my friend, you bright hunger.
My heart is a handful
of brass I've written off.
Mouths to feed. And so on.
Everything with wings breaks
that handful of brass.
Everything with eyes.
Sometimes you don't even
read the whole thing - no
need. My god, take my
hand. Look at me - no,
really. The trees are
trading their blossoms
for green. Pushing
petals to fly
which fall to the dirt.
01 — Here we abide by a glutted pink
The rivers of my days now
a rush of steel. A few hundred
tires from the faucet, going
nowhere fast. I am going
nowhere fast. Here we abide
by a glutted pink, the providence
of a new spring. Eyes closed under
glass water. Together we find
stillness by reaching
and reaching.