there is a limit for everything.
there's a limit on how accurately
you can pronounce 'pecan',
and it's worth a watch--
between wild west ranger
and retired norwich resident.
one must decide which arm
is stronger-- two grocery bags
for the left arm and one for
the right,
but if it were not so,
you may as well carry them
on each drooping finger.
a can rests on a tired desk.
it is filled with nothing,
which is precisely everything.
it weights 478 lbs. to an ant,
a balloon's helium proximity to you.
now try to step in the aluminum cylinder
and carry it from the inside
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 8:39 PM UTC
I cannot recall the bruise on my thumb
and the lazy scent of saliva on the carpet.
Working, under what circumstance?
Have you not the mind of a nocturne?
Are you bidding me to sleep
when you know I cannot?
God, I wonder if his fingers fumble
once in a while,
when I firmly hold my soliloquy
between the reed and my sorrowing lips.
It hurts,
down bottom,
I think,
But Saturday holds a repetitive rendition
of the same smiling faces
and the same brand of red pens.
I am not tired;
one has a maximum that
has not yet been conquered.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
Thanks for licensing your wet name
Like a spoon against a bitten cheek
to take your vanilla trophy
and pop it back in :
Your crowd of hairs,
tinsel with limited light
and hoard of little comprehension,
Ma'am, sweet goes your calves
and fish tail swinging back in glee :
Tell me of tomorrow,
please.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
open seed;
her busted fetus of death's frail womb
and moisture drops soil's dehydrated tongue,
a quiet resignation, understanding,
is some triumph on the other side
where the picket fence, traitor,
glances in whatever direction he
hears noise.
&
we exchange our horoscopes
with our eyebrows,
and the mini universes beneath them,
circular and budding
as medicines and poisons.
&&
you are not shimmied away
by the sand's magnetic force
nor stand with planted soles
on stone foundation.
you are lured
by wind's woe of distance.
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
so it was once
when you did each explore
in the crevices burned deep beneath
the blacksmith's pitcher,
and of kindling an unfamiliar taste
left to ravish haste
into statue-like disposition.
sometimes your fingers sting,
for it is you against dark
and cold does whistle
when your lips cannot part,
for they are chapped--
once ridden by an ancient kiss
where you once viewed the metropolitan
shadows against michigan's waters
though you were nestled
against sage weeping quilts,
resting at the sky
whom bids you no more
with stars the fury so soft
you smile,
because there is nothing else
worthy to do.
you'd like to think she does
the same; counting her toes
when they pad on linoleum ground,
and her being able to hear
against the streetcars rumbling below.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 9:34 PM UTC
...is some minding swoop of your brow,
mimicking in your doleful eyes,
some ember fled to soot-drunken clouds
of mumbling mothers abandoned from cradles above.
Distillation, did her husband remember,
like banquets of poor bread that suffered in baskets,
no tender fish to oil the hair or curse the breath.
The casket feigned bitter chocolate,
hallucination the refuge of finger bones replacing ribs,
and what priest would sneer beneath his cloak,
as he turned away to cough and sympathize under unheavenly wings?
Woman, woman, you've cut my pie all wrong.
The piece goes like that, obtuse and feared,
and your tongue at my knees when days do retire--
her melody's a ***** shriek,
pawing through the birthplace of sea glass
and sharp bruises of scents through her palms,
where perhaps one lingers thirty years too long,
taking one year of fetal distraction.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 8:05 PM UTC
It is 3 AM,
and no one is sleeping in their dreams,
but a meter flicks with the ring of your pulse,
supple streams watched
by tender mothers
and their soft eyes in darkness.
I glimpse my city
of ratty ears,
dust of mill and coal the reluctant taste,
of acrid tongue settling against the corners.
And they beckon me
with once plunged fingernails,
and luring each tall man
against the harbor, against the wall.
So lingering their grasps remain on summer weeds,
skinny strands of yeasted yellow
like some lurching disease that has brought
trembling, tilting, padding
hard feet slapped against cold floor.
She was warmer than fall,
and thicker than winter's feed.
Her frame sits on the blinds of 3 AM,
where somewhere else on the road,
light is blown from infant hands.
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
tonight there is no room,
no bed for soft heads to converse,
with knobbly knees bent out
in soft chattering--
from cold? hardly.
dawn mimics a dove,
with her white limbs,
off-plummage,
driven to some point
that has faded to your crescent brow.
tomorrow the siege will pull
at your echoing streets,
splitting hair strings off end
until you find earthen creatures
tugging at the hem,
at the toilet,
swallowing their hollow drums,
counting a mistress' scarlet nails
and her emerald brooch.
tonight i am quiet
with a bed.
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 9:29 PM UTC
It is winter in the ******* she nibbled,
minus festivities, strained fibers
of holiday's lore seeking confinement
in sore redness between your nails.
Like the last fervent muffle
of whizzing domino lines
struck by spring's sprigs,
the numbers nip in low spirits,
blackened from speech and stubble.
Hardly is the slow breath worth
your angled chin a glimmer,
because when the sun
snaps at your chest like an egg,
little do you know
how it commits adultery
when you sleep,
and only when you sleep.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 7:42 PM UTC
i.
There are imaginations that are made of rust,
and they tend to rest on clothes lines and
spoil the rotting canary of mediocre dress.
Walk with me, because my pebbles cannot
settle against the dim of my breast pockets,
and so weary the sun tells me to strike upon
sweat laden cobblestone tears that chastise
who? You? Says he who comes stifled at my
feet, like an outlet man staring at fruits' chambers,
her wealthy, red string the last of his eyes!
Alas, what sure vagrant would kiss my fingers?
Is dignity the sour aroma of embarassment?
But let him come, when she turns her apple cheeks
to pray to the same head and God above.
ii.
The favorite jest of an arrow is to pierce a leg
while he jauntily catches the brow of his family.
The man will never saunter, nor amble in patterns
that reveals the flesh of a throbbing vein.
A young calf grows like the bluff of puffed cheeks,
and soon another, too--
together. His trousers will widen their stomachs;
his head the curious stew of bubbling concoction
that rise and decide not to evaporate in the air.
And someday, perhaps very soon, the fairest of
them all will chance and gaze into gallant eyes,
but brought down when he lowers the unidentified
color of glass. So be it.
His coins can jangle and fly to Shantou,
to Charleroi, circle around the perimeter
back to Sacramento. Ships move, yet the
infant steps of lead grow dim in development.
iii.
They say the wealthy family cannot last
for more than two generations.
They say a heart cannot last
its beating against another's,
if it be true.
iv.
Once, a man licked his fingers without even touching it.
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 10:57 PM UTC