Thursday, February 25, 2010



& this Christ was an older brother
& this Christ would lie down with his whores
& this Christ could pound nails with his fists
& this Christ lived with the name of Christ

& this Christ was a younger brother
& this Christ sold you heaven or hell
& this Christ caught fish in his bare hands
& this Christ died in the name of Christ

& this Christ was brother to no man
& this Christ loved no one forever
& this Christ spoke with demons & drank fire
& this Christ rose from the name of Christ

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

:then a million of dark voices sing

":then a million of dark voices sing
against the awful mystery of light"
e.e. cummings

in lives of blur & pulp
only terror acts. passion,
tactile, each night incites
endless circumventions,
arbitrarily. islands,
alive, uncharted,
a million voices light
the awful mystery,
the obligatory intercessions.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

I would be Jesus/Without a cross to prove me

"I would be Jesus
Without a cross to prove me." A. Sexton

You, kind sirs, tore the gaunt border down
Daily. Music, the bells, gone.
Drowned out in symbolic form
& in single view; uncovered
Lens, black holes, black dens, the last, lost
So I will go now
Without knowing my best route
Distance wildly inaccurate.
My feet, dry, cracking, gold leaf
Underfoot, footsteps up steep steppes.
My clothing walks back to me.
The waiting a story: unknown
Girls, skin on lost roads, the tavern
Wall. All making a living;
Aeschylus, the Oceanides, Faustus
The Furies: walking, rowing, bearing
A torch, observing falling stars.
The truth & the dead know curses
Profane for gods who weep deep,
The fortress old, doors weathered
& still. Born the unnamable nature of
Holy hows unexplained, we die
Awake, horses beaten to fever.
With no safety in place
The hegira abides.

Monday, February 8, 2010

centurions voice

centurions voice

...racked sterile cultures host as centurions voice... reviewing the troops overlooking the queen & the tower of london... black warriors running the gamut, a buffalo stampede of slaughtered instincts... musters confronting the cynic in me... politicos dealing the enemy away... there were no messages sent on the fate of the rebels... magazines litter flickering fires... ravaged fields fume from diesel & lead... confederate generals mine industrial crime... blockaded supply lines starve out the blind... shrieks keen disembodied with wounds crawling rampant... pig iron quarried weal’s warlike rebel order...

...around ploughshares beat down, around harsh funeral wails, a third lung found breathing this storm wed to pain... time & a way around the flames dancing higher... stick matches yet no spark to burn down the blame... gasping belief while tearing down idols... leaving nothing living in the homes of fell hunters... but a dozen or so banners dividing faith into ages...

...the trance of robed shamen in mansions of flux... two voices intoning with breathless remembrance... using the right word in all the right situations... dangerous moments in this occasional love... cold blazing manhood but a share in the profits... blue feminine soul producing portraits & godheads...

...a stream consciously painted in a desert of want... honing old speech to remain treading water... swift water rushing washing the bridge out... tidewater flooding a barren rock’s cape jutting skyward in rain... towering vistas imprisoning steel, glass inside... spent residue thawing, sticky & seeping, strand by strand falling...

Sunday, February 7, 2010


Time. Time to make time. I had time on my mind just a minute ago, what was I going to say? Time on my mind but not on my hands. Time to try to make time. Time for Timer. Hmmm, would anyone get that reference? David would. We liked Time for Timer. Maybe I’ll just leave it dangling and move on.
Time. Time in a bottle. Time table. Time to get a move on. Time to shake a leg. How long can I keep this up? Time to rise and shine, sunshine. Time for school. Time for bed. You keep writing time and it starts to stop looking like time. A riff on time. Time directing, time dictating. Me time. My time. My time is your time. Your time is up.
Time please, put your pencils down. Time gentlemen. You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here. Time. It all comes back to time. Do you have the time? Can you make time? What time is it? What time is love? That was a jamming song. If I’ve got time I'll tell you a story…

Saturday, February 6, 2010

by definition

by definition

the strains strain faith
restrain Siegfried’s march
overarch the posture, force.
arched & armoured
in colours lost as smoke, cors
anglis augmenting
miens sounding
air as if in north sprung
unrepentant soars
a hint of poetry.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

wake me when I’m dead/

wake me when I’m dead/
meloncholic nodes
of Ondes-Martentots

ringing echo
shifting, massing. colliding/
decay caged recalls,

applauds the hours/
voices force the habit formed/
signals in old codes

neither whole nor off shore/
sound: charcoal smudged snowstorms
space: white silent sea

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

There remains a void where the heart is

"There remains a void where the heart is" J. Marti

Nesting green leaf tops, Cuban emeralds
Sip from fulsome urns. Green pinnate
Leaves bleed gold blossoms. Granite,
Mortar, marble mausoleums tier.
Pilings leeching pitch from piers;
Beneath ebbing angels languish
Flawless ivory nautili. Cayo Hueso.

Last led, lashed bare, los Martires de Cuba
Shape the buried ground below
The unfazed virgin's unmoving gaze.
Uprooted, the restless tamarind root
Reeling, wheeling gulls' unbalanced calls,
Sea salts pitting an old air sung
In anguish of forsaken language.

Monday, February 1, 2010

myth in:re verse

myth in:re verse

about the ancient hobble plodding
morning stars/routinely plotted
phlegmatic souls slough
dross from gold/brass seraphs
burning oil as censers fume,

the debris of gods moved on/pain,
whatever is vain, floats freely;
birdsong sung on each bough/
as we creep, aurora arraying
the hoardings so easily mislaid/