you hold me on wires by my spine like i'm a puppet and you're the puppeteer,
the wires dancing out of orbit as similar as power lines wrestling a storm or
electrons that are never at a certain point at any time. your misaccuracy
reminds me of a pinpoint on a map because it never touches the destination
on point, and i absorb the attention you provide like polymer gel ***** with
water, but you are the most unstable puppeteer i've ever known, smiling
through smoke and blindfolding me covering me in black and blue camoflauge
throwing me in the fire, drowning me in the deep depths of the ocean,
and laughing as i sink in denial and crave the inevitable let down

- kra

Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again

out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure

that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you

as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--

or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?

Whether George loved Alice,
Benedict didn’t know,
but Alice loved George,
she let it show.

Benedict saw the way
she looked when George
came in the room
or if she spotted him
along the passage,
she’d flushed and gawk
at him like some spotty
schoolgirl (though she
must have been near 70
if a day) and pat down
her grey skirt or mauve
flowered dress and make
sure, without mirror, her
hair was not a mess.

Benedict watched George,
poor of sight and bent slight,
enter the dinning hall
and make straight
for his chair and table,
sit down and fiddle
with the cutlery,
gaze at his face
in the back of a spoon
(though God knows
what he saw with eyes
like his, except blur),
while across the way
Alice would stand,
and girl like, swoon.

Benedict saw Alice
once or twice, when
courage allowed,
stand behind George’s chair
and with fingers twiddle his hair.

George blushed at this,
looked straight ahead,
sensing Alice’s hands
about his neck
in soft embrace,
her lips near,
wanting to kiss,
touched his face.

Benedict guessed
she never ventured
to George’s room or bed,
least not for real,
but maybe in dreams
or in some loving corner
of her aging head.

Whether George
loved Alice,
Benedict couldn’t say,
but he hoped George did
in his own odd way.

I’m trapped
In a labyrinth of thoughts
A complicated irregular network
Of nonsensical passages
I wonder
Will I ever escape
Will I ever get to feel
Or to taste
What this place
Has conjured up
And passed off
As reality
But in my heart I know
I never will
I’ll exist here forever
From this place
I’ll watch my body rot
And feel my mind disintegrate
My only escape
From the present
Is the future
Though I know
It’s nonexistent
So what’s the point
Is there a reason
Because I need one
I’m beginning to tire
Of this never-ending puzzle
When I think I’ve found my way out
I get lost again
When I begin to see a light
At the end of the tunnel
It flickers off,
toying with my head
And I’m lost again
Was there ever a time
When I wasn’t
Was there ever a time
When my mind could be free
I can’t remember

Give me more love or more disdain;
      The torrid, or the frozen zone,
Bring equal ease unto my pain;
      The temperate affords me none;
Either extreme, of love, or hate,
Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love,
      Like Danae in that golden show’r
I swim in pleasure; if it prove
      Disdain, that torrent will devour
My vulture-hopes; and he’s possess’d
Of heaven, that’s but from hell releas’d.

Then crown my joys, or cure my pain;
Give me more love, or more disdain.