Sunday, August 28, 2011

to the witches that where killed...I don't believe in magic, only words.

life is a confection of differences.

to understand
personas at random-

and the jokes they read

play and

spin-onto a listener with
pushy mouths.

or why don't we read anymore?

to love the unlovable shoebox;

and searching...

filling its space in a day
and there is still the night to come.


by the small that affects.

hungry for The Age of Stars to return.

Saturday, August 20, 2011


ideas are safe as long as they are forgotten.
hidden behind a gate

never built to satisfy.
they believe in
sandstorm saviors, and never believed

at first,

the stories told to them by those who believed
the first stories told to them.

they are most dangerous when they learned to read
through the holes in your beard-

left alone to wonder how long it takes
to let lying dogs lie.

because no one eats for free.

ideas are safe as long as they can
spread, like fires adapted,

moving upwards

into the chimney top cap turned black,
and speaking,

teaching debonair-

like my english teachers used to do.
and what did they know.

Ideas are safe in the head, where they belong.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

it is the end of the night.
i know it is the end because i am

peeing white. that is to say there is no

no more color. only white.

and then the eyes close.

and then black.

and then the
disturbing dreams only a traveler

sees, while searching
through the lines dividing
the forgotten from the televised.

and the news make so much money theses days.

the liberty of saints

the sinners wept. living sounds like
screwing in nails; when all you need

is a hammer.

like a trumpet under Lake Michigan-
channelling comment cards to those

who do not read,
and counting coconuts always takes up

the afternoon...

when there is everything to do and nothing
is single.

their eyes tell you they want you,

but you know their thoughts.
and they are responsible,

and will not take you for themselves.

and you will not feel their skin on yours

and you will not taste their neck.

it makes the sinners weep-more than black berries
after the summer,

more than the rights of spring,

more than jesus,

because he was lucky; and took the liberty of saints
and died early.

Monday, August 8, 2011

something about ants

i try to speak lightly, like walking
on egg shells, hungry,

looking for yolks-

but there is nothing to find but noise.
and breaking broken shells never feels good.

the chatter, attacks in waves,

discounted with coupons, selling adds
to the corner of my minds eye.

I try to walk lightly, like speaking into the

ears of ants, hungry
to please the lover they will never touch-

feeding fatherless offspring, and always moving.

the ankles, wear wrinkled clothing-roll their own cigarettes,
and complain about the weather.

and so i smile lightly, sit lightly, and let fingers do the talking.