Tag: writing
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Epigrams of Imaginary Flowers
a broad-limbed melancholy dude (bearded, carries a pocketknife) levitates thinks eternal thoughts indifferent to the fact that nothing’s happening a sunflower rises in an empty doorway the sea is disorganized the mermaid’s a false intention she’ll come over him in a tin cup indicating death a red insect on a hill flutters in a glass…
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Secret Lives of Headlights
morning is seditious; the alphabet’s a void is nothing without the accomplice of my window where the air breaks into seasons, hour after hour the city grows younger. a portrait of strangers swooning over whiskey, revolutionizing poetry, invent music, transport themselves to a time that didn’t yet exist. themselves, invent the lore of cassette tapes,…
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The Secret Origins of Stars
It is my hope that you’ll read this poem in many different ways: as a series of short poems, as one longer poem, or even out of order, if it suits you. I found as I was revising that many of these lines and stanzas seemed interchangeable. And I myself had a difficult time choosing…
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Paper Moth
i. this life is ancient at a distance, it is dust the thirst for solitude the luxury of loving in tandem like the idea of a paper moth its image is bodiless, breaks flies into a ponderous, gray light ii. a soft landing under weight of wood and sky the air has grown short and…
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History of the Modern World
the modern world was born on a danglethat’s how we got inmoments with actual limbs just a bunch of hobos with paper haircuts paintings of melons and mystery shipsin sober sunlit arrangement (can you see it? they don’t want you to believe it) a good day, a good piece of what isn’t there, that’s what…
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Lily Strikes the Hours
i remember the back of you as a lily strikes the hours every stone walks off and the morning sinks in an avalanche of footprints, petals and parables the sudden whitewashed limbs of you As I don’t anticipate posting again this week, I would like to take this opportunity to wish you all a very…
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The Minimalist
what the body is thinking at the cliff, at the forehead of laughter in the flower in the mouth
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This Old Drag
i say there’s an ocean between holes in the ocean and no one believes me (just add a tin can, it’s heavier than a cup of coffee) i remember one day being born as the sun hissed by my window the silence was rounder than a peach not real silence but a kind of torn…
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The man is bliss.
a tall, thin-limbed fellow got a fork in his mouth in the instant, he’s mistaken for hungry “how you gonna let him dig when he ain’t got no bones?” because he can’t sing with a knife or a shovel look, it’s only his great wobbling jelly eyes, his fragile marrow nose that show us nothing…
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Note to Lazarus
note to Lazarus: at the moment i am voodoo bound with the help of incense and a man who crowned himself Buddha by candlelight what a vision, what a night paranoia isn’t the problem but remembering to breathe—no—remembering to sing—like some kind of whiskey bird or a high-pitched circus this idea—it won’t respond forever like…
The Used Life 