MAGNOLIA PLAINSMAN —

Magnolias gesture in solitude, until morning
Over roped-roots, petals emerge in Spring
The sky still weeps against the passing
Fragile petals fill, shed their pretense
Fall easily to the ground
And underfoot are crushed
Into the soil

Magnolias remain impossibly, against their mourning
Submerged petals restore the flora of another Spring
Possibly the same blossoms, same roots
Resurrected anew in ecstatic absorption
Stronger than yesterday
Weaker than tomorrow

SUBSISTENT FORMS —

It is pure nonsense to believe
that the aliens can be conquered by
an eye gouge, a testicular squeeze
or a nipple twist. The tragic theorem
is awfully ugly, a paradox of ugly, universal
and unequivocal, paranormal and pathetic.
The mysterious “intruders” are not unknown.
Like in the movies, the mysterious intruders
are among us. So leave your heirlooms behind
for the looters. Bring your songbooks. Learn to
smile wide. After all, perhaps the aliens are under
obligation to intervene. Perhaps they are here to
free us from our program. Perhaps we
should pity them, sing along children.
Or perhaps we should gather our bayonets,
machetes, knives, scythes, cutthroat razors.
Perhaps we should prepare a place to disembowel and
incinerate them. Perhaps we should prepare ourselves
a place for disembowelment. AK-47s, blindfolds,
and pump-action shotguns may prove prudent.
Whatsoever the resources, weapons of
opportunity will be wielded. Improvise
child, you’re only limited by imagination
and the hour is certainly short, our
screams turning into specks of moonlight
as we are dragged away by our neighbors

HYPOTHESIS ON TERRORISM —

Total or unreal
our reality beyond principal
mental and physical liberation flow
in the rubble of our own image
zero sign of hostility

VICTIMOLOGY —

Captors claim
the capacity of the captive
the shade cast
between the background
and the frame

TALC —

Suspended children
flee a building burning permanent
persuaded and dissuaded
out of the dank
into the fray
weeping and
waving
in vain.

CONTEMPT —

She
slowly
slips
into survival
the general form of the subject
a strip-tease
a theatre
of the pure
her thirst
her odyssey
real as obscured

You'll Find A Way —

 

An imaginary line 

draws no tension

A clenched fist 

receives no alms

HOLDING FAST —

I keep remembering the churches
the people and their sad faces
trembling over faded
operatic lungs
that can stop gasping
but will not —
raising hands in the air

I keep remembering the organ
it's weary cry drenched in Picasso blue
the desperate stare of scarcity
fists clenched —
raising hands in the air

I keep remembering the bluster
the depressions in the earth
hoards of old women gossiping
with frowns turned upside down
properly trimmed —
raising hands in the air

I keep remembering the girl's dresses
their young black legs
secured by tall fathers
soles stamping incensed
the B-24 Liberator
Solar powered war
and the people —
raising hands in the air

APPROACHING IMPERATIVE —

behold yourself,

a murder or

the soon to be

murdered

"The Condemned"- 1869 Mihaly Munkacsy - Oil on Pannel

THE POLICEMEN —

 his targets 

on realistic ground

speak of violence 

and loneliness

the answer yes

the only reply 

an honest man 

could give

MULCH —

a benevolent multitude of monsters

wield the baton and the barrel

cultivating land with blood

the progression smooth

so long as it never runs 

ahead of itself

NO SWIMMING POOL —

i’m eating stir fried beef with pepper sauce
a black koi swims a figure eight to my left
and everything is reasonable

after a few minutes two
American girls come in

my waitress approaches them and smiles

“do you have a double room?”
they ask

“yes, double room 600”
says the waitress

a stray dog wanders over and sits next to me

“you’re not getting any of my food”
i tell the dog

he understands and gets up to leave

“do you have a swimming pool?”
ask the Americans

“no, we only have that fish there that is swimming”
says my waitress


the Americans turn and walk out
and my waitress comes over and
asks “another drink?”

i say “yes”

and the black koi
goes round and
round again

LINES OF NIRVANA —

not much chance of nirvana

on a greyhound bus from
nowhere to no place
a lady sits in front of you
bird's nest in her hair
you'll never she her face
people don't talk to each other
only the crazies do that
and you'll never get zen
by looking out the window
at dead grass and strip-malls
that's not how it happens
you'd have to kill a man
with your bare hands to get
to get your blood pressure to rise
a nipple above nothing
and if the bus stops in the
middle of anywhere
it will be the same
and you'll have to find your
nirvana in the back of
someone else's head
staring at a tangled mess
or the lines in the road