Monday, August 21, 2017

Once a Future

Late
Afternoon and
I hold my balls in hand.
The world should be a better place.
Wait.

Hylozoist

Matter represents itself
As all possible reality.
This apple isn’t orange,
It is roughly vermillion.

I knew as much when I
Was only four years old.
I liked the feel of warm
Sand on a sunny day.

I built office buildings
For little plastic citizens.
My best friend was far
Away at kindergarten.

I barely knew who I was.
I knew what I could do.
How do you access the
Unconscious by yourself?

A fortiori, you understand
Yourself as a subconscious.
At the core, we know what
We think of a slow sun sink.

The sun becomes the moon.
Moon becomes midnight.
Ralph said stars are alive.
I let me soul come and go.

Saturday, August 19, 2017

Tidbits and Gigabytes

Adenosine is an endogenous
Sleep inducer. That's why we
Feel more awake after coffee.

You may have known
Lithium from its role
In rechargeable batteries.

Do you think it more effective
To have a cooperative network
With a clearly chosen coordinator?

Such instabilities are akin
To a snake or dragon
That swallows its own tail.

Joe tells us that the citron was
Considered a valuable commodity
Due to its healing qualities.

'Life-years lost' is a better approach
To observing mortality trends, 
Than cause of death.

Friday, August 18, 2017

Repairs

Workers
Break the street,
Pour in new concrete.
Skilled hands sculpt the curb.
Park it.

Thursday, August 17, 2017

Fairy Tale

Monsters jump around in my head.
Copper green with wing feathers
Sharp as saws and lightning eyes.
I try to run from your many arms.

Fangs like ice cycles drip poison.
Lips thick and clay black kiss
The back of my neck. I bleed.
I sweat as my burning eyes roll.

Don’t tell me what is real or
What I feel. You know this is all
Your fault. Born from heartbreak
Slim dragons and crystal snakes

Tie my hands together; gag me.
Where did you take me? Desire
Wires my guts. I swallow vomit
Like liquor. You twist my wrists.

I will not look. I will not feel.
I will forget that you are real.

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

Used Equipment (for Michael Robbins)

Nothing about growing up in Colorado
Wheat fields or Arkansas rice paddies
Makes you have to be so critical, Mikey,

Except maybe for the homogenous space
And the insistent vibrations in your head.
Pop music microwaves the countryside.

A really pretty-white girl writes love songs
With a purple ballpoint in her spiral binder
And somehow becomes a millionaire idol.

This is the dream of every worm alive
By a heat vent in the Pacific Trench. So,
We dream of deep water and hot women.

If words riot will books self-immolate?
Will the fire illuminate the dark face
Of what life turns from? Do you think?

You have to be anonymous to remain
Autonomous. Work through questions—
No, no answers at the back of this text.


Monday, August 14, 2017

On the Road to Salvation

In long black coats
And furry black mittens,
What causes these two

Nineteen year-old boys
On missionary bicycles
To be so eager to witness

Their belief in the Book
Of Mormon and Jesus
To me and my pooch?

Don’t they have a clue
How cold it is standing
In this empty parking lot?

My dog, and right on cue,
Has a deed he needs to do.

Saturday, August 12, 2017

Perseids Peaks

Parked on the edge of the Costco lot past midnight
under the hazy heaven of city lights and moon,
you point out the one star bright enough to see
and it is a planet.  One meteor streaks beyond neon.

We lean back on the windshield and drink soda,
like students in the cheap seats we wait for the
celestial shower to show what mid-August brings,
orbiting dust. We hold hands in astrological hush.

A Jet Blue heads for the airport while another
makes a steep ascent. Our vigil is spontaneous
otherwise we would be on some bluff miles
beyond the suburb. We have the radio and blues.

Trucks travel the interstate oblivious to the stars
as well as our car solitary in this vast black field.
We imagine we ride a raft over the ragged edge
of the world. We fall into a sky dizzy with breath.

Shadows move over us as a helicopter patrols
alleys and backyards. One streak explodes to six.
I squeeze you in my arms and hum satisfaction
as dawn pulls us back to earth and another day.


(After Poem of the Day: August 12 in the Nebraska
Sand Hills Watching the Perseids Meteor Shower
By Twyla Hansen) 

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