no title

In the Moody Slough
a hand
In the wind through laurel
a fist
In the sand of Baghdad
a gun
and I am undone.

With What Penis Like The Virgins Of Birth

"It's not my fault
but I am a participant"

(or how we won the war with our cape on)
afternoon with gavin douglas



Four veins after the gays and manners there
and active bow, upon her shuddered bare
as ache had bone and wide undress
within waving her hair allows it to trace

Adonis wise without burning with fire
using alone fool of all ice and year
to we all, lost country, that windy region
and Ferdinand over us stormy sun

This got us when, where we all lost thinking
in gusty chaos they are in this land whistling
and bravely time passed us by as power refrains
in bandits hearts certain pre sound constrains

They win they say profusely
kill further deep to hear the voice pass by
through jealous we will dross upon high
roll the dice with stories and wine is there

You are us, not us, and the wind afflicts us
(Quells each mouth and chest when this is called with us)
soon after the rose of rose the rose rose 
that will kill us will fill us complete can crackle and fray

with or doubts, moons sewn and days laid
hidden bust out of the thrown on us sight
darkness is not beside the sea a boat
deferment the big bang rumbling we are in route

Disguise is often ligament with further line
and sure we bathed and are the better, sea and horns
and during dying human is is, lament today
Shiva and then directly present before the hear

Only Clear Things

A man with a hammer.
The place where a key used to be.
You were, my love, you were.

Only clear things.
Only water and vodka and chardonnay,
everything in glass.
In order to prove mountains
there must be a valley.

I opened another bottle.
You spoke of Anne Sexton
and Virginia Woolf, about how
women who write are women who drown.
All your problems look like nails.

Poems are people, too,
with mothers and fathers.
Your uneven sonnets lay weeping
on the concrete outside the bar.


You were my love you were

transient servitude

transient servitude
(composed of two parts: "proem" and "poem")



it
maybe
needed
to
visit
the cave, the street,
but
these expand
from
an unseen
station outward
over waterings and
wrong lefts
leading to right
circumstances and entrance
is anywhere they look
we are there across
the canal the flowers
are blowing clean
past a tower of marking
these marks betray
prescribed meaning in the untrue there
must be an empty
champagne bottle just around
the corner as chips connect
us as blocks
used to past
in linear but now the half
circle implying the complete
place of departure
in
the
body
out

Here is the Reason

HERE IS THE REASON

or explication means to run the mind comb through itself
one could see the implication of questioning is argument was important
or could see the silence in answering and the slant it reveals
or see the opening that the spaces provide physically in difference
or consideration brings the veils back up you in front of the screen
or sit down and breath through it finding only what is revelatory
or simply take the narrative as is guides the you through
or stacked in each parcel is the whole waiting to be unzipped
or sealed in the whole is the ultimate lesson of selflessness
or hunger was always an issue for the writer as language was smokes
or wetness is prevalent in the diction which desires the feminine split
or combine the processes into anew and separate the author from the inscribed
or spoken memory is the basis of all of our myth and needed to initiate
or ignore the intent and the meaning will become imbued internally
or externally the speaker is longing for rest but finds it in thinking
or leaving the black slate alone and considering wheel-barrels
or father death, mother death, it reminds me of another
or original is a death sentence always the ending