Friday, September 29, 2017

Travelling Without Moving

                                          Dead, 2017

                                          Decay, 2017

                                           Distance, 2017

                                          Doom, 2017

                                           Downfall, 2017

                                           Judgment, 2017

                                           Ruin, 2017

                                          Silence, 2017

                                          Sleep, 2017

Sunday, August 13, 2017


The car idles near
a silent black road stretching
to the dimmed confines,

Softly, now, the dusk's
dark air hasn't any bite.
oddly suspended,

passive, watery,
allowing for swift passage
disengaged from flesh.

give sorrow counsel
time's malleable quirks flash
thunder in the mists,

always the distance
of the small places of the
small  broken bough is

cradled by mauve skies
receding, they caution the
heavy autumn light

that alights recall.
look back wisely (if at all),
far, away, then far gone.

Sunday, July 9, 2017

and I'm tired to hear of Lowell, Further Lane, & the Whitney
truth be told I've grown deathly sick of the Times
I wonder: where's my parade, my due ?
There is no rest
the heat unravels itself tediously
like a long story with a bad ending.

humbled in the morning's sun & at odds again,
the street's an interior fortressed and fenced,
impossible to navigate,
epic forever unread,
cemented, feverish & demented.

from somewhere high above
a reveille ekes out a weakened blow
sonic, sensed inside, heard through teeth.

slowly warmth and daylight dims
what's left of any open ideas as
reality plucks out a perplexing tune
onto the frontal lobe, the sweated brow
we march yet again to one dreadful
single beat beat out by another.

the wheels of the tumbrel turn round
our dharma
we hope untruths will scatter
we ponder
what turn was missed?
who led us astray?

these days
an ounce of shade is prized like a bull pig
collared at a county fair
where July's dust & August's gravel runs over our bodies
like the tiny feet of
a caged chameleon
anticipating a harvest that never quite comes


Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Life is curious when it is reduced to its essentials.
- Jean Rhys, "Good Morning, Midnight" 1939