(Just for fun, let’s play a game: put pen to paper or fingers to keyboards and spill out a poem, every line the first thing that pops into your head. Be as passive as possible, keep editing to a minimum and let’s see what surrealist stuff we come up with. Comment if you participate so I can read yours.)

Here is your
fog warning
you’ve lost your lenses
can’t quite make sense when
the power is out
is the feeling you feel
real
or temporary
nonsense neurons and
chemicals, burned up
by blood-heat
meaningless
out of focus or
broken, bulging
in the kaleidoscope,
your only telescope
for sighting land.
If clarity is the
end goal I think
my arrow is flying
well off target
better adjust
my anchor point,
search for
solid ground
or maybe just
a noose to hang onto
one exquisite
corpse looking for
a mausoleum,
something sturdy
stone or metal,
earth-binding.
Sorry, Universe,
I’m not quite
ready for any more
time in the heavens.

This place is both outside
and inside me
not heavy but
quiet
still waters broken by
moon glow and an
old pier, a bit
worn and lonely
so let’s lay there
upside down
until the horizon
looks like a snow globe
waiting for someone
to shake it
and send us
tumbling, a pleasant
nausea like
love
or rollercoasters.

Is it truly vanity
to not settle for the mundane?
I want to drink the champagne stars
hold the Moon in my arms,
kiss the Sun in all his glory
have the Night fall in love with me.
You call me insane
for not wanting to be contained,
for wanting to swim in the sea
of the universe
for wanting to speak
the language of the cosmos.
Why should I have to explain
the need to slide down a rainbow,
for wanting to swallow planets whole
and become celestial,
that yearning to immerse myself
in all that is strange and wonderful.

The holes in my
hands and feet
are tied with string
tied
to wooden shackles
and I walk
gripping the
tether— drag one hand
then one foot
loose-limbed
all joints and
weak knees
slip-slinking.
I
pull up my head
by threads spun
of fallen hair
dry and flaking
to bob on
this limp neck—
bones but
no filament—
and though
every limb is
lead-heavy,
I walk on.

Tiny shops hunch in a row
On brick and clapboard feet
A huddle of windows filled
        with come-on-in
The sun slides behind their flat tops
As I wait for you on the bridge --

Clouds push and shove each other
Across a dusky sky:
                I watch you cross the street
A thief bearing a single plucked flower
Your pockets crammed with promises
        that won't be kept
But I don't care
My pulse is launching rockets --

The river beneath flows
        in irrefutable rhyme
Smells of moss and deadwood
        fill the air
Brown geese out for a swim
        are making social calls
As you take my hand
                Small
        Into yours
And I know
When I look into your eyes
I must never kiss you
As twilight tucks us in
        And brushes back our hair --

I hope I smell
like green things
earthy, growing
damp and pungent
after rain
the scent of
stretching
myself in
imperceptible
amounts, always
a little new.

We all
rot
ballooning into
dust husks
flesh slip-dripping
from bone
after a life
marked by
nails torn
clawing to some
false ideal we
cannot agree on.
We all
came
drenched in the
slime of our
mothers’ bodies and
sweat-flicked
fornication
to struggle,
mottled and
squalling,
to gorge our
animal natures.
Yes,
a few roads
may diverge
in this yellow-tinged
wood, but
let’s not pretend
they don’t all lead
in the same
direction.