"askant" poems
There is one distance or diameter through the center. There is only one D. Cir equals two pir or just pid, big D with e's pie-eating smile. If you look at e'm askant you can see how the i's drop out in a furtive way to leave only cr/p.
E wears cr/p as a badge of honor on e's tee. It's how e chooses to identify with the infinite Volume. Pir or pid, both are too circumspect. D quantifies directly, but really E's just two r or r as a diminutive D half step down.
As a minor E didn't fly. Twice promoted now, D is much happier as a major, three quarters of a Volare. E gets to fly three quarter skies with three roots dug deep, deep down twice into the sunken earth, a visceral connection to a Cantare.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
the sky's getting behind
its blue--to terrify itself.
electric, alert and popping.
the trees fizz lime green.
the moon's askant
half-sunk--
the tapered brushwork
of a blown crown.
May 11, 2019
May 11, 2019 at 1:45 PM UTC
There down by the brook
arborescent shades the violet hue
where the moon fell in the sway of your neck
..and the night withdrew
Here a mere specter of thought
Iridescent space encased a memory new
Painted in the shimmering mist with you amiss
..Light seldom holds true
Words unfurled sung; entrapment's
illusions I have seen colors imbue
Sinking; this spatial bliss of your pnemoptical kiss
..I bare your askant view
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 1:22 PM UTC
Fighting Tuesday’s boredom,
he decided to play a game
And because he’d never done it,
he decided to test his fame
He mouthed the most nonsensical words
with imagery askant
Then wrote them down from right to left,
a backward forward rant
To see if then his audience,
could make sense of this ruse
He published in the New York Times,
for readers there to muse
To his surprise they cheered and raved,
and called his name out loud
And said that T.S. Eliot,
from his gravesite would be proud
They found deep meaning in every word,
each rooted as a farce
And saw an abstract Moby ****
within his dark discourse
With pen in hand he pushed away,
and leaned back in his chair
And scratched his head in wonderment,
—at the myth his fame could bear
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 12:05 AM UTC