Friday, June 1, 2018

Fictitious Capital

Driving across roads:
what are we; meandering
on this rock, alone.

Paper rain skips from paper clouds
in paper skies, but the paper flowers
never wilt and always smell like paper.

Sinking into our own private deaths
on Berber carpet - you’re sleeping in
a parking lot that’s still asleep.

Turning back time
after time has passed is a crumbling oak
tree across the street.

Crescent-moon soliloquy:
the book on the nightstand;
the stare from the stairs.

Seven yellows, six greens;
the rest is whatever will come
of your midnights

and no one will ever know who you are
when the sky ruptures.

Sunday, May 13, 2018

Godric’s Hollow II

She’s unbound - stone deadbolts collapse in the monster’s nectary thunderstorm. In the monster’s nectary thundersnow there’s a wraith writhing beneath thirty motley crosses.
Beneath thirty motley crosses you and I have traveled ends and beginnings with wasted and neglected middles.
With wasted and neglected middles, thunderstorms of thundersnow envelop writhing wraiths and stone deadbolts shatter underfoot.


Sunday, February 18, 2018

Recount: Sunday

The coldest room in the house
was on fire –
hollowed out of itself.

You were still sitting;
sitting still like a glacier
melting into me.

Trying to turn the fan
towards the smoke
and harrowing midnight.

The coldest room in the house
was a fire –
hallowed be thy flame.

I made no sounds of sleep
nor watched the fire crawl
across the ceiling, darkly.

The coldest room in the house
was afire –
unhallowed serpentflame specter.


We don’t know where we’ve been –
The knives: all alive:
you’re only just

awake.

Friday, April 14, 2017

Nightmare Honey

You’ve been drinking
McCormick black pepper
at midnight again haven’t you?

There is no left
or wrong –
a bunny by the vandals.

Hands in your lungs:
most beautiful tart
killed her.

The silence juxtaposed
cicada swamp growling
November 66, 1998.

And want says to reach out
but my ear has a pulse
and drank. Too many

left turns towards
murky autumns are springing
over white crested cliffs.

Some are her and some are summer;
you don't win or win her
when winter is winning her over.

Maybe spring me summer
or fall into spring.
Win some of her winters

or win summer winters;
some are stars summer stars.
The sum of her stars stirring starlight.

Look back and lose another.


Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Run Long on Broken Lungs

Gone are the days of eastern oysters
                   silver-netted
and falling to pieces when I walk
behind Madison Square Garden for the “Best Slice
of New York Pizza!”
          And on 8th Avenue, boasting a pagan-ritual sized
sign that reads “Voted One of the 10 Best Slices in the City!”
                   they weren’t actually wrong.
I thought Joe’s in Greenwich was alright
I believe Sal & Carmine’s off Broadway gets the job done
but NY Pizza Suprema just has the ratio near-perfect
          beneath this soft kneeling moon
wading into marinara red –
this pillow-scented road
full-of-reclining-ash vs. void-of-sliding-palms:
It’s good that it’s sad
                   this early in the evening
when the sun is still out on its swing set
          and I miss you more with every flicker of neon on 30th st. 
out and to the west.






Sunday, January 29, 2017

Captain Morrow’s Descent into Wire

Branch bisecting death
or the tree that feel asleep

as far as you can’t see
as far as the horse can carry you.

You wanted to wield a scythe so you did
as sepia clouds set the backdrop for asphalt night.

Sing for dying and sleep tomorrow
to collapsed fences in darker dirt

by the snake in your eyes
or the crucifix above your bed;

I’m sorry July was wrong,
and January became unbearable.

I asked Odin for another chance
while Frigg was weaving dreams in the sky

and he kept telling to me to ask him later
and to fake a smile until it stuck.

I fake a smile and when it sticks
I’m gonna climb over the fenced-in fence

maybe ask Odin again for that scary chance
and try to stop waking up with nauseous dread.

The me that was poisoned by the me that wasn’t –
the me that wasn’t learning to fly

vs. the me that wasn’t: learning to fly;
money on the latter. You will always matter.

Monday, October 24, 2016

Everyone's Lord Byron for Halloween

Spring Water is like
the Number 1 App on the App Store –
it’s your only nourishment
and you need 60 ounces a day.

Your eyes are like
a record player –
spinning dizzying concentric
circles of color: I can’t stop staring.

My heart is the CPU
of my other heart
and it’s bogged down by one
unnecessary program that I can’t uninstall.

Coffee is like coffee.

Relationships are likes iPhones –
          awesome for a month
          inseparable and automatic for a year
          cracked and obsolete by year two.