The Poetry of
Michael G. Khmelnitsky

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