Sunday, March 01, 2015

Like Counting Gulls

Foreign fighters flock
to the tune of a billion terrors.
The instruments, though digital,
still function as pre-medieval.
Sledge hammers do not erase
seven millennia of  stone history
so much as make virtual icons
of jackass perpetrators.
We down play perpetuation
as armies trek their annual
migrations across capital capitols.
All those domed spaces
seem to need the toll of bells
as they gleam under star fall.
We go strewn as shrapnel
and broken seashells
under the constant trickle
of time, the infinite ripple.
All pools at tidal edge.
Now you see the next combatant
lose all his downy feathers.
His hands no longer useful
for letters. Language lacks 
both permanence and perfection
no matter which prophet speaks.

Saturday, January 31, 2015

Almost Buds

We were the winter trees
in chill mist and dank,
close as glass to drizzle.
I remember your hand
settling around the page
under the pillow
and between days.

We drank hot tea and talked.
Deep thoughts and serious,
we laughed at society
and our lack of place.

The equinox and new leaves
dot a weft of twigs and stems;
fringe the mist with promise.
How impossible
being this age
and never pledged.

Circumstances force us
to be the forest.
We come to a place
where memories rest.
A stone throat speaks
the heart’s silence.

Saturday, January 24, 2015

Under Doll

The media eye rolls
over the female body.
This is not everybody.

I find myself in front
of the cutting edge.
Hold the honing steel.

The oval, the opal, the
range finder fastened
securely to the barrel.

More than Mississippi
nights flow through
grassy boundaries.

Could this be big fur?
I’ll take the baseball—
paint your face on it.
Could be my home run.


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