Most mornings are spare,
Like the spaces between the branches of a spruce tree.
Most mornings are clearings in woods
And bare bark.
Most mornings sound of violins
And Torquil Campbell’s voice swooning in and out of Bach’s Suites,
Leaving you empty,
Hueing you in gray,
And sketching you, lightly, onto white notebook paper.

You look at me
With windswept eyes
So blue beneath
The brooding skies
Emotions like
The storm front brewing
Flit across your face
Your voice now hueing
Fragile beauty
Rarely seen
The paradox
Of what is/what’s been
It’s in the transition
That we meet
Painted skies
And feelings deep

riding the lame horse
hueing rotten wood

losing in this world
as only losers could

the Empire rages on
thinking that it should

but truth is in the silence
and the Silence is the Good.

Park Avenue's rubber flood, its mastered
whoredom.
Hermes' passage, whose sonorous cleft
is repeated after--until its vehicular
usurpation is complete.
As if an anciently overdubbed rite.
On Oct. 4, 1986, Dan Rather was making
his way home.
His kindly signed-off face was fully
dimmed, as the American public filled in
the blanks of a broadcast.
Able to speak when spoken to.
Did he scrub off Live Makeup, or leave it
on?
Early autumn air was warmth's incorrect
remainder, intimating a tailorship that
cooly spun off Mr. Rather.
As his profile heightened, so did his
senses--beelines like rulers.
Eighties NYC was characterizing its deity, horns running up facades--Yeeping.
Dan's gentlemanly earnestness, hueing
his lips with delivery--while being stalked.
Nick-of-the-eye holograms of cityscape
intensity--a closed plan of attack that
already conquered variables.
Karma's streetless address of supposed
firsts.
Of foes, feet & frequency--homing in on
Dan, three dots about to connect.
Not that it couldn't be, but that it could &
would be--Dan was about to sweat-up his
suit.
His large eyes maintained innocence as they tried his skull like a fish on deck:
"Kenneth, what's the frequency?"
a voice asked.
Repeatedly this question was posed,
as feet & fists reached out from each word.
Mr. Rather clocked in the jaw & kicked, saught refuge in a building lobby--
"Kenneth, what's the frequency?!"
Two of Manhattan's Men in Black took turns tweaking a radio dial.
The staticky melee blipped, booped &
zipped straight out of an unfeeling
extraction of alien information.
There was CBS' voice of reason,
rained down upon by a white beam logic.
Mr. Rather's signal eventually came in
clear, as he was helped up, asking: 'Who
on earth is this Kenneth fellow, what of the frequency?'

Hueing rotten wood
      more couldn’t now than could
                         ambiguous the should ...


     on the lame horse, yet stay the course

               thus, meeting Robin Hood.