Poetry Archives Bio
March 13, 2018
10:01 PM
The Great Depression of 2073

To Chris Olstrom

change is chaos
so I never carry any

these are places I have been
that have been in me

the traces behind the eyes
turn'd to deep blackred brine

a crack in the lunette
a callous rippling on the waves

and all i want is to watch the sun set
and read the atlantic
and drink red wine

* * *

the seawall
speckled with narcissus

the time of light when even smallest pebbles cast
the longest shadows

so  the day untuned
what is to be done

is an oar an oar
is a spoon

* * *

i am a bundle of nerve endings
piston or pistol-epistle

i am a borrowed tic (talk
i am tired of the poetic backend (pun intended

i assemble things in a state of apartitude frantic
like a hairline trigger on an accent grave

and i wonder "I should put a button here
now  what function should it have?

and is all i want to sun the set watch
and read red wine
and drink the atlantic

* * *

you cannot be professional in love
or talk about it with a forkèd tongue
(or mince your words in time betwixt

proximal metatarsals call to me
how shall I get me home from iridiscent larmes
to which your hand is now affix'd?

the savages they cook and eat in corner'd maps
still life with oysters or red rocks and foam

a courtesan with downcast eyes she serves me postcards
as an aide-mémoire  her ex's shoes are sticking from the loam

a man named shoeshine ironshirt has crippling nymphomania
a maniac has mania in a small house in tasmania

* * *

the man with demons in his boots
is climbing down the steps of former suits

t'wards the collective ravelling apart
of lucidness moonlit

before he goes to bed he tries on every pair of pants
none of them fit

March 10, 2018
7:56 PM
Dirty Limericks VII

There was once a young girl named Sally,
Whose passion was salto mortale,
She'd twirl in the air her great derrière,
And all would enjoy the finale.

There was once a young man named Kuba,
Who was quite enamoured with scuba,
His quite last remark (while devoured by a shark):
"Well, at least I weren't playing no tuba!"

There was once a girl, Patty Boister,
Who opted to live in a cloister
Her chastity vows she just couldn't rouse,
When the grocery man popped her oyster.

February 25, 2018
4:48 PM

To Edgar Lam

life ought not be a raw material for art

the moon without mercy haunts his days and darks
the city blinks and twinkles its indifferent squares
the taxing evening soaked in shades of black lengthwise

the desperate 鬼佬 he puts his face into his hands
his hands they smell of antiseptic alcohol and lies

one of those people walking nowhere on the bridge
step after step the man he soon becomes just like

back in the waiting room he must be careful with
offhanded phrases like "the battery is dead

and uncle tony says a lot in his delightful london cant
in which he tells him earnestly the phrase "we, orientals
his heart melts quietly right through his head

although they're careful not to talk about
the man reduced to meat  self portrait in a shade of red

by now he's free to wonder of thin lines
of things between vicissitudes clean split
as he  glides on home on the snow and the ice

without a feeling or sensation in his feet

4:35 PM
a list of people I have killed

Rod Moody-Corbett, for a magnificent title
Derek Choy, for a splendid first line
Nikki Martinez, for saving me from myself

silence is the best medicine
so I have reduced your name to a dot
    I am surrounded by women I could love
                         masculine sans mescaline

I place the morning eucharist upon my tongue
      & swallow hard
I sneak behind the looking glass
          & see my doppelgänger gone

I watch the orange bits suspended in the jam
the black swirl marks on floors of coffeecups
the hearts on windows that now shout
                                                        OX! OX!

the steps of men on treadmills
     are those of slow deliberate malfunctioned hearts
the pathways to the valves as in a children's maze
     are wending to a goal that can't be found

     and even this—the central office counts our souls
& prints them out in pixellated odds (or odes
& maps them out to signals of missed calls
     and scribbled postal codes

(I am the kind of person who removes with teeth
  his gloves
I sleep in winter and in summer
  I awake

I rarely purchase sacred woven loaves 
  or drowse with wolves
but nicholas now rings a bell
  reminding me of sleeplessness and fickleness

beapron'd  sly izaz is as is
while he fills my feet with isotopes  my head with dreams
the doctor to be  sends me his skull as lettermail
  I send him my regards  sealed with a kiss

the girl in wheelchair next to me  she waits
she wails (it looks like she might die
the silent orchestra on the teevee
three roses left on three steps leading to a door

  cursèd olympiad ex-eye-eye-eye comes in my line of sight
  like maggots white (well fed  they nestle in the socket orbital
  death by a thousand cunts
  (can anything be real now anymore?

  the way all sounds can feel within the mouth
  not cellar door but retarded pederast
  a spider found within a toilet bowl
  (if I don't move it might not notice me

the voiceless instruments  oh how they strain
the plump fat lawyer  hot wheels on her cases spin
   shows off the upturned white V at her darkened neck
  (how many negroes can she coax upon that pin?

 I can now barely see  the sea it hardly can
    wash grit out from my yen  within its frenzied rise
on the horizon  at arthur rimbaud aims paul verlaine
   the winter dusts my hair  soon I am wise

February 6, 2018
12:54 PM
To Work!

I pour myself a hot black cup of coffee from a pot;
Its thousand staring eyes are blinking—beady, bright.
Perhaps I'll let it cool here on the desk,
And when the time comes—sit, sip, write.

January 23, 2018
8:59 AM
staff of asclepius

To Rod Moody-Corbett

it is always early in your country
and i love you for this

like the morning loves its cockadoodledoos
(emphasis on the doodle

I am on the crapper
after giving the millstone my all

recollecting a twelve year old's
vaginal bestiary of mind

alien vs. predator
(though always more predator than alien

with the telemetric dropsy of our age
i don't need figures or facts

i don't need a metric for lonelineſs
lickety split tickety boo

i make a recovery point for history
and fuck it all up for giggles and shits

it's easy to forget how to chew
or walk or sleep so suddenly

I find myself among the streets
debased by the collusive wind and rain

looking up things (aside from consonants
to do in reykjavik

it is too early still but here I am
the victim of long liquid shits from birds

(avenging ortolans fondus
sans either veritas or vino

i shall call thee the male sunrise
the tentative and tender auroron

pallidus mane that moves across the ciels
the buffer zone between myself and teleos

last night i dreamt from prison an escape
to rescue from a ravager my child

my spine and soul they wind around my ache
like mapplethorpe's caduceus (or worse

back of the bass rubbed by a loving knee
letters from hermes/aphrodite's son

how it all shines and fits (when it wants it can
both do and go against your nature

and what of the man?
he wipes his left nipple with sawdust and moves on

nothing is knowable save for love

January 3, 2018
10:02 PM

To Michał Minicki

the bills are paid  the cocktails left behind
illuminate my face in the dark glass

the gym is cloudy  someone shows her ass
her legs  her tits  in a deep stretch entwined

and I must wonder  as I speed amass
whether the dog is barking in the street

whether the rolling fog is at my feet
or in my mind

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