Wednesday, February 21, 2018

The ledge pours
green water and uneven furniture,
branches to break on
above webbed rocks,
bent birches and seedlings that stab,
blood from the lowest dip in the pool,
the crackle of a speaking ear.

Moss parts on the rock,
the stone clit is a prism
the sun gets stuck in,
to be evening, to rip liquid,
blow vine through hosiery,
ruffle the rags
on a peak encampment,
and circle the irregular dome
to drip sap from helicopter blades
into rivulet trays.

The bright electricity
of punctured rooms,
blades of delayed bodies
pushing air in parallelogram cubes,
setting a pointed star
of threshing floors,
the summit's flaking skin
a lidless eye pressed to red mica
in the hinge between worlds.

Tuesday, February 20, 2018

A platform of wrath from undersea,
the spilling claws and high-piled body shells,
lips stained together on a crying rock,
quartz mashed in granite eyes riding a flagpole
with no rope, on the prison shore
blooming with hyacinth chains,
long planks of men's faces and imaginary bars
gathered into a pile burned
down to an arm-breaking

Scales on the sky that have dragged
their dots and lines over the cum-stuck sand
to be draped in limousine gardens
where the guests lie stacked in uniforms,
greeting the under sky,
the stone's lid, the writing hammer
and the long sharp leaves of a shadow
without permission.

Blood-thick fingers stirring
in an upside-down glass.
Heavy heads breaking ornate necks.
Corridors that the stomach knows
in their numbered depth.

Sinkholes of rainbow gasoline
giving way to ink hearts,
a treeline sprinkled
with bottle caps and eyelashes,
the water punched and smoked
re-poured and poisoned
ultimately flowing over.

Sunday, February 18, 2018

The black Madonnas among images of grace,
tying the ship to a whale heart
trigger in the clouds,
faces of grim beatitude channeling rain
and happy with the sun,
the ant hill salted with guns,
my twin mamas.

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

Stumped at the podium,
the drag line, the soup kitchen,
I wandered looking for my name.
I found it in burnt metal
at the back of a grocery store.
I propped it up on favorite icicles.
It fucked around with a readership.

Powdered memory, the king of a bucket of leaves.
Worshiped in refractory back circuits.
The prey of certain seeking conduits.
An armed looker making armed confessions,
the strength of his station
a portable rift that goes fishing.

Furs and fiery dosed coffee,
stacked against the thousand walls'
cartons of empty breakfast.
Taking another name,
with a bid-hand into the air,
I'll have that one, it's mine,
I will sear its framework
into these many minds.

Sludge and fist
and the joy of mercury
a ton factory for hollow brains
the holiness of slain dragons
consciousness captive to the host
lost in his loves and smash-ups
having out-run his mirror and remained

I will do away with this fossil nutbag
delicately for bronze-projected millennia
while he eats my cake helmet
and wraps my feet in seaweed
from his wet mineral drawer
pulling tags and salespeople aside
to make way to my heart

with a stretched letter of zero
a corked anatomy plug sheet
a monstrous cash flow involvement
hewing to the national murder
of the weak and hysterical
because their punishment
suits their central casting
and what central casting has selected
let nobody separate from destiny
let nobody unravel what destiny has afforded
let nobody ask and then what

Monday, February 12, 2018

Black frame variations
from within white flowers,
moving like gray ghosts,
my two mule binoculars
pick up the first flags of winter
only a few feet above
with a rush of sound,
a flock of nearly two hundred
signaling the cold thrushes to come.

Banks of majestic cottonwoods stand dressed like golden spires among the evergreens;
caps of snow timber and brush thickets resound with bird song;
stuffing themselves with berries to the point of saskatoon brush,
feeding on the dry bohemian waxwings
through the blood-red patch of eggs and fledglings done
craft and care taken in their building of a canyon to go
other of the tribe of the world.

Decorating the face with color, ripening the grass and splashing the leaves of the
mythical land: of Eden, California, an island
peopled by a swarthy, robust, passionate race of
women living manless chivalry and derring-do,
the past is also lovingly maintained.  The state is golden yet.

Among them all, only the rough timberline
on the mountains, the September larches stand
the first flocks of migrating sooty-gray coots showing up on the bigger lakes
with their sharp ivory-white beaks and beating

From nesting splitting the wind their way with short wing strokes
in diving they are element, graceful and astonishing--a joy of grace and power

For they are the biggest of all deer and move pure
blood stirring with the first
and small songbirds already gone.

Friday, February 09, 2018

High winding violin strings pluck pine
over the theater's web
dashing backwards on rubber screens
tying pigs' tails to an unfettered gate
a kaleidoscopic sock
dripping out of exhaust pipe
bent paths in skirts of washed-up gloves
tires molding land to a mound
of blood salamanders
tiny hooked spines and detached tails
the question mark of orange flesh
clinging to broken bark,
the diseased motor
of a dreaming tree.

Thursday, February 08, 2018

With a light not my own
I pillaged my scarecrows,
they stood in a yielding rain.

Terrible glory of spent hours
hitting the wind, some heat
on the back of that beast's neck,
there he goes.

Chasing days over the cliff's lip
like grains of salt.