Poetry Archives Bio



June 25, 2022

To Lys Glassford

By three post meridiem, no more.
Patiently, Herr Doktor explains, "Wir sind nicht Gott."

Air is hot stove; langue remplace doigt.
Golden temple reflected in water is not

Golden temple reflected in water. Secret
Face of bird shows signs of domestic unrest

Small, shy mice bring presents of fear, while these
Sons of britches harbour, dissociate.

You must hide yen, then love to love old flesh
(High cost to learn you are collected ghosts.)

Moon is my ghost. Moon is my guest.

                Imaginary country where I was born
                Had mostly sadness and very little food.
                It had bears, and some humans, but they
                Were all sad and had very little food.
                There were red flags everywhere, literally.

She warns me against reading rough,

Puts my hand on it, lets me feel trueness
Of wall; outside, Mooloner shrieks, "TRRRRRRRRRR!

SANE PERSON LIVES HERE!" I look at light in
Window, house become Saint Sebastian.

I lose my gardening fork in
Dark; my skin clings to smoke.

It's Just About Time

June 3, 2022

Inspired by Lys Glassford

By moment I got to exit marked HOME,
Sky began to cry.

Every tree wept and tears ran
Down faces of highway signs.

Inside car, tender voice insisted
On and on and on,

I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love;
I think I'm in love.

Suddenly pictured you in starched cuffs.
I pictured you swinging like J.

When I stopped over for drooz, board
Above door said, KEEP LIONS FROM LAMBS.

I got three packs from two girls. They were
Not much older than you.

(I never though I would write you
Again, or tragodíes in this

Polis.) In each yard, copses await,
On each branch, reproach.

When I got back to house, I sat under
Drum-taps, digesting fist.

What I wouldn't give for another fight!
You would split my lip;

Later, we'd make peace,
Just in time for knob to turn; then—dinner!

But it isn't how this kind of thing works.
I open garage door with another

Man's hands. Goodbye, goodbye.
Goodnight, goodnight.


May 22, 2022

To Lys Glassford and Ben Reeves

That man who wipes his feet upon this grass
Says quick prayer, enters numinous hell.

Though he cannot account, Cappelbaum watches
Petals like hungry cogs, sets profusion of traps.

Pale void whispers softly, "Only thing I
Promise you is that one day you will die."

To him from up there, æroplane seems metal bee.
You, under sky and roof, petition porcelain god.

It is all synthesis. It starts rhet'ric
And ends synthesis, which often includes:

Bird named Chicken, that man indifferent to pie,
Painter who shouts to another, "Hey you! Break brush!"
Runs off into thicket to ally with madness.

    Let them go to those malls! Let's then go to them all!
    Let them out of their prisons! Let poet eat poet!

    I will grow out my beard! I will sharpen my spear!
    I will let down my hair and this world will know it!

Lifetimes ahead, Cappelbaum imagines ten
Thousand ways to skin cat. He tells you one—"You first
Remove skin to expose ribs..." He will not say

Proven way, secret way they must not have.
But Rocinante trips on level spot

And Cappelbaum stares at their map until
He no longer recognizes his terrain.

He watches cutout hills as I issue
Destruction from cloud cover. Future is here.

For now, we travel his mind's vast, winding
Corridors, for him we must stop to sample,

Listen for signs that repeated use makes
New, touch nostril'd whispers of smoke, unbreathing,

Watch rare filament stretched between two blades.

Dual Desire

April 24, 2022

Inspired by Ben Reeves

Cappelbaum wept. When he awoke,
All that remained was sign in ceiling
Inscribed⁠—hand snarling at air.

It meant to say (though could
Neither hear nor comprehend)
That to love is to create.

Unlike this beast, he was not impelled
By medley of smells in trashcan.
Instead, Cappelbaum observed

Circumambulation before
Decisive moment, her many turns,
Just long enough for posterity

To consider this brown donnée
Followed by civil obsequy,
Then back to house for breakfast! Breakfast!

Cappelbaum wept. He addressed
Wolf of his dreams⁠, "Did love not prompt you
To build dwelling for bones?"

It was day when they left,
Followed by force of habit.
On his way, Cappelbaum sighted arcs,

Atop his paper pile noted
Entrails on trowels,
Humanity received secondhand.

On his way back to house, trees
Hiked up their skirts, birds flounced their song's
Dual desire; nothing doing.

Cappelbaum sat down,
Closed parenthesis,
(Having been given his proof).

Fog on Fenceline

April 3, 2022

You receive alarums in dreams,
Alerts turned prefigurations.
Your moaning door announces
Your duty for this day, so

You make, you breastfeed;
You breastfeed, you get drunk;
You find her, together drink smoke,
Píno báfo, píno báfo—

This is your only way here,
One moment in whose synthesis
You stand and recollect
Nostalgically this present

Where two sad, cold feet huddle
Closer, toe rough ledge, lipping
Their pater hēmōn as our fiend,
Unseen, comes in.

Why such obvious ingress?
Why these guards cannot see her?
Why does walk like smoke?
What causes him to look

Just when at crest of house
Eagle past? What causes him
To ratchet head, gaze back
In reverse?

                 And down here,
Iméra tis krísis, death.
Bones won't stay still; this
Very earth rejected them,

As you must come to, through
Gray, gentle slats of light,
Day promised by low fog,
Where outside, it waits.

I Can't Stand Ants

March 29, 2022

To Lys Glassford

How they invade my home.
How they infect my mind.

These small, black ants
That leave veiled threats behind.

These small, black ants
That gather at the sink.

And when they're squeezed,
They stink.

These small, black ants
That often carry flags.

These tiny banners,
Often red and white.

All strength of their convictions
Is in numbers.

These small, black ants
That like to tell bald lies,

These tiny lies
That cut across each line.

And when you decimate,
They multiply.

You must not let them
At your gate.

You must not have them
In your dreams.

Give poison to their queen
And wait.

How they disperse and roam.
How they disband and die.

With frantic chants.


March 27, 2022

On Sunday, Cappelbaum became dog.

He woke up from dream in which he kept
Arriving in Japan. Bus driver
Was white but spoke perfect Chinese. He

Veered and steered bus with large round dial
Down long, empty highway. Cappelbaum
Left his navy blue Hilfiger bag

On bus, but, when he realized this,
He felt no sadness at all, only
Liberation from past. Besides, his

Backpack kept turning to black satchel,
As he kept passing white onlookers,
Who were onlooking curiously.

Cappelbaum searched for concrete garden,
Most beautiful garden that he saw
Only in dreams. Perfectly unsprung,

Weather was now firmly in favour.
When he ran, everyone ran. When he
Spoke, everyone spoke the language that

Everyone speaks. No wonder, for he'd
Spent seven years Theseus'd. As he
Arrived at his stop, Cappelbaum saw

That he had much more walking to do
Before becoming. He did not have
Mouth to explain difference between

Two words. He did not have digits to
Demonstrate why canary's demise
Was most important of all, or why

No matter remained. Cappelbaum then
Bounded through streets to dark waterfront
To garden, open garden, hanging

Garden, concrete garden of muted
Beauty and light, where two girls with shaved
Heads mourned broken tectonic plates when

Opening door woke Cappelbaum. She
Performed sinuous stretch, one small leg
Bent back. She shook her short mane, ran to

Sounds of morning and breakfast and voice.

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