A great raven squats
on a green dumpster
behind the meat market.
Its black is blacker
than anything near to the earth,
a thick hang-nail beak blackest,
more than the pitch-black in its eyes.
"Click-clock, click-clock," I cluck at the bird
who ruffles his feathers, staring right through me,
then one cluck gets in, and he ***** his head
to watch my tongue, a pink hatchling squirming
away from a stabbing. He waits for scraps,
gristle to choke down; a deviant bird
who pokes out your eye if you simply stare
a little too long: "The plane is alive;
it is born. Each form is a world."
A supreme semaphore, a whistle,
a croak, a hop and a squawk.
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 9:38 PM UTC
Everything’s worn out Mijita.
Our sheets threadbare and stained,
your shoes tangled beneath the bed
and my back aches getting ready, again, for us:
our candles, our mirror, all of the roses
you’ve hung by the stems, and tonight
tonight is for manchego, anchoas,
our kitchen buried in snow.
And I’ll be too tired to know why my love,
why it’s so cold; or are we so drunk
on the cava we drink and we drink
that you can’t remember?
Tonight is for sunflower seeds,
your pipas, for gambas al ajillo!
And all of the shells you spit into the ocean,
I sweep from the floor in the morning.
Aug 14, 2025
Aug 14, 2025 at 10:09 PM UTC
So this hawk,
this red-tailed hawk,
this 'At first I thought it was a little dog?' hawk
was hunkered down in the alley,
was feeding,
was ripping up,
was eating by tearing off little strips
of this pigeon,
from this iridescent rust-blue pigeon's breast,
a blizzard of pigeon plumes falling
on blood-spattered snow because
the pigeon's wings beat
softly, softly, softly, still
making angels.
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 2:06 PM UTC
The Glossary of Rocks and Minerals says that
invisible structures in crystal
explain the qualities:
gravity and hardness,
the fatal habits, why
invincible diamond
will cleave along axes
of symmetry too small
to be seen.
But threshold,
where the eye unaided
apprehends transparence,
brilliance, the glide across
visible surface, its
lexicon of flatness,
this world, informs the intention of
the crystallographer, too far out, on the ice.
Jul 28, 2025
Jul 28, 2025 at 7:04 PM UTC
Look, look, look,
get out of your Jacuzzi for a minute,
swizzle or swallow that Martini's cherry, wonder:
“Where'd you put your housecoat?”
Naked's not too bad on you, still
snow's a-piling, bending boughs in silence, except
you just stand there, a-dripping and a-dropping,
until you're just a tiny trickle
to your people
anymore.
O, the Jacuzzi crowd prefer their sweet martinis,
so they can place the cherries in between
their moistened lips and languorously slip
inside the silkiest pajamas, gripping cherry pits
between their perfect teeth.
& even if a little dribble tickles at their chin
they know someone will lick it off,
like the ones who seem to say:
"I am a mighty river
to my people!"
Looking out
over the lip of his Jacuzzi,
limbs adrift-o in the boil, our a.k.a., Mr. Linguini,
from his fetid broth, will lift
a steaming finger: a sort of signal which,
beyond the bathtub rim can hardly wallow
any further; the gurgling water swallows all,
apocalyptic now, like Martin Sheen
(though his muddy Mekong would reflect
the dream-sung air-strike), whereas here
only the lingering whiff
of a sweet morsel:
Chilean (still half-eaten) sea bass.
Mais, mon cheri, c’est de vous qu’ils parlent a la tele!
& pray tell sweetie, how can I say more
in French? Encore? Staring in the mirror,
speckled trout? Artic char?
(Incroyable! les Anglais ne savent pas manger...)
the dream undone, he'd tried to order pizza
& instead now found himself in bed,
or soon to be so, foreign tongue
tastes best confused. Denial?
O he was into it, over his head,
with crocodiles, our Monseigneur,
at last, exposed to darkness
& the fishiness of darkened things, to feed the beasts:
to reach, to squeeze, to raise the hemistichal stream.
Snow sloughed off an over laden bough
& slapped its spot of sunlight:
this would be afternoon would be.
He rose, our Mr. Linguini,
at last took stock of things
just as they are,
just as they were
& surely just
as they shall be.
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 6:58 PM UTC
The crazy boy is clawing at his mom.
Or does he think she is a tree?
Her trunk twisting backward toward the ground,
a crippled mulberry.
Wicked. Wicked. Kicking with his rubber boots,
there are no worlds for him to be
in peace. On something like a hidden track
inside his little hell, he squints an eye
and yells, Let go, let go!, and so she does,
a sob, the tear wiped from her cheek, he's run
across the street, a ratty pompom bobs
on his wool toque, two squirrels ***** a crow
into the sky who caws the same three notes
and settles on a yellow sign that hangs
above his head and warns "No Exit", so
I laugh and look down at my feet to see
a worm tormented by a swarm of ants,
it's spring, a car squeals by, I take a step
towards the brink and beg myself to stop:
I know the boy has gone ahead, I know
the stream descends through hollow rock.
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 9:30 PM UTC
To warm up we walked
to the ravine;
we could both wear my father’s
old running shoes.
You wanted to talk
about us and if
I’d stayed with your mom,
what we’d of done?
We started to run
into the ravine,
we jostled and touched,
“I would’ve done this…and been more tenacious,”
— you’d already heard,
so we horsed
on the narrowing path
until you disappeared.
I caught you up
the last twenty steps out
of the ravine,
you smiled: “Old man,
you’re going down,”
and we raced the half-mile
back to the house, where you turned
to watch me return;
how I lost
with all of my heart,
so far behind;
I’d thought
I seemed more than I was,
but you weren’t surprised
how easy
you’d put me to rest.
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 2:51 PM UTC
(com)Putaré.
Roman in spirit, I reckon:
pure, amputation,
standing, Greek-still,
numb, counting our infinite
orders. Ordaining but mainly
still, metastatic: a system,
a yes and a no.
More relation than thing,
pure burning forge, binary
burnt to instruction constructs a prosthetic,
so here:
clamour and rattle, flutter and struggle
requiem whistler, your Kyrié Eleison!
Strap up the tap shoe: Hop ! Step ! Brush ! Slip Off!
fall crawling, follow the echoing absence,
of world?
O, there are worlds for this:
Charles Simonyi sang in a soft tiny 'C',
reserved for himself, tautologically,
the in and the out of it:
[#defineNEARnear] and
[#defineVOIDvoid] I
swear it is true
(parenthetically) to itself,
otherwise go
wherever
you get two.
Virtualis.
Rootless, I reckon:
(hu)Man, reflected (my pidgen) in
vir/us, nest fetid (putére)
Stinking like poison, our
pigeon Kingfisher, the bob and the strut,
picks at its nits, an ubiquitous flutter
inside our openings,
pigeon souls digging
deep pigeon holes.
Souls: Log On.
Infect space in between
system and structure. Logged or afloat
in the time-slice,
the churn smoothing bios (for us!),
to be construed:
Basic Input Output System or Breath,
(Soul, to you)
You know the drill,
down to the psukos, I reckon,
some zoon logon, so
pass a word over: Are we on?
We are off!
We the prosopopoetic (figure it out)—
Warm mask on the dead.
Dead? No. New (at long last),
some thing no older
than its own name:
(declare:
[NAME]
"remember this fire"
***the step was always downhill
(PROCLAIM:
“here we are again”
Here we are again
A£¶šÌ & oÊ°ÔìŨÙ;–
again and again
<…ÚYš„¦ú•¥Ûµ¸e=Â:
a mask on a masquerade.
Jul 14, 2025
Jul 14, 2025 at 3:07 PM UTC
It hit me while running,
staring down at my feet without thinking,
how in much the same way
two overlapped squares, idly sketched,
resolve into a cube, or
a wine goblet will turn into faces,
this well-worn path in the grass
I believed I’d been sharing all of these years,
was only, in fact, the one I had beaten
into the ground by myself.
Jul 13, 2025
Jul 13, 2025 at 8:59 PM UTC