A distant reflection cast with classicist leanings. 
I wanted to borrow that woman's eyes for a moment: 
viaticum for vestige


I am staring at you from across this page.
I am a cyclops with two eyes. 
The "Cy" in "Cy Young" stands for "Cyclone." 
I am a cyclone with two eyes. 
The Alphabet, in clusters, is jumbled in my gums. 
"On the double, let's go!" 


I see my great aunt sitting on the front porch fanning herself with long bony fingers. 
I still daydream of dozing off in a field of cotton. 
Every piece of cotton, like tiny cumulus clouds hovering inches above the earth. 
I must remind you that this poem is for you. 
This poem is a well-fed ox. 


How strange to see wood that would not burn. 
Old habits are kept like sunscreen that gets skin-deep; 
a re-charging of the body, as fresh as islands of green.


I watched a yellow butterfly flutter majestically over the top of a red car. 
Visions, stretched like dough. 


Is anything ever actually 100%? 


Too sudden our time slips away, like slashing off the heads of flowers. 
An oyster choking on its pearl. 


I could give you my knees. 
I want you to stand tall. 
I want you to hand me your arms as we witness the alpenglow sweep over the city,
like the tolling of a bell speaking of the passage of time.


The fervor of violence coupled with a thrust & counterthrust of the hearts of Men, thirsting. 
Spiritual throats swallowing all of the sorrow from their Tumultuous Whole. 


If our little lives are "rounded with sleep" why then do I keep awake like a giant colonnade? 
A fiction? 
A frenzy to be so alive like moods of Bach? 


I attempt to live in two worlds at once; each interpenetrating the other.
To turn a new leaf will be glossed at will. 
To tear a photograph out of mid-air. 
A work that is fragile & too quickly forgotten. 


with the radio on

the night before

is as silent as unrented rooms


make that

an ever-invisible satellite
scanning the heart's desire

in every room

"the only place not being occupied is the ceiling" 

I face the day 
as if blackbirds
beat through Bach

The night before:
broken vessels
tissue-soft looming
tree's root's circulatory certainty

Flags might be flowers with ventilators 

perfectly pancaked 
between your day & mine

We ripen the chosen parts

Everything else is rottening like momentary planks

except Light

Light is its own soft bee
glistens like orphans with a new family

Deathrow is lifelike
a weak arm like a broken window

An actor always "looks like"
someone else
blasphemer of life's emitted death

Take aim and be me
be me

To take every moment
as a galaxy
leading you into a waterfall
quite clearly

Our Bio's are perfect circles
but who listens?

This is ironic


Irony is a Christmas crook
slipping on crooked frozen mistletoe


"Catch" detail. A place where
light peeks into contours,
unexaggerated by a "fool's gold"
of mind-trickery, but rather
like a cup nearly falling from
a window sill; all of invisible
weight keeping it put, or like
a chair, half-turned, light
on its back; all bite
& no bark. Cat had my tongue, 
my wrist in her majestic mouth,
my hand on her soft belly
the way clouds lay low on a 
dewy ground. If detail
exceeds eyes, study dried fruit
under a microscope; train yourself,
the way things come alive for
different tastes. Blandness of blind
beauty. I noticed a man polishing
a silver leg brace; the loosening up
like an unraveled bow; a gesture
dangled from his eyes; his mouth
curved into exercise. Anatomy of 
every still or unstilled thing
is an atom of me. 


Love me before all of the snow melts,
Before the Great Sewer
Washes us all away,
Before the car bombers
Give their indications.

I squinted at a rooftop
Across the street in the October sun;
The dust behind me, tornadic.
A red truck had passed.
A shadow moved in an opened window:
     my aching heart.

I could have waited for a sniper's bullet,
The way Spicer said that the Plague
Swelled them all to dizziness in Berkley;
The way Ferlinghetti was charged with
Selling "obscene literature" in the mid-fifties.

If you love me
I will leave a crevice open in my chest.
I will be standing after the nuke hits;
A skeleton, a white-wash board in a desert.
Rush to the scene, gather me up
Like the dust that I am; hang me on
Padded Hangers.

Love me before all of the snow melts,
Before the Great Sewer
Washes us all away,
Before the car bombers
Give their indications. 


Do I exist outside of a photograph? 
Does a fisherman exist underneath the flat-bottomed
boat?       The moth drew to a flame
                to escape the confines of clustered polluted air. 
                The flame in my heart this moth vibrates. 

You are there; a radio, blaring in my chest.
You are there, as a moth is there, or as seagulls
                      explore a vast shoreline. 

Sunlight glistens off of the docks of my heart; 
dew-covered boards as if inlaid with diamonds. 

Outside on the street I see three boys throwing basketballs
upwards towards a powerline where a lace-tied pair of shoes
hangs. Their failed attempts make them slump-shouldered. 

The sky, duck-egg blue; 
spotted feathers of clouds,
like white ceramic. Blackbirds
hang, soar, maneuver quickly,
leaving traces of sudden blurs
as if scratching words into the 
calming blue sky with goose quills.
Winter trees, barren, with skeletal
fingers nibbling this scene to 

Contemplative. Meditative. 

I exist outside of a photograph
giving breath to all that I envelop.