Song Smith

 –

 –

As we stand at the bus stop

I intone my quiet song

fingers to reach

into the void and

find purchase

a kindred ear

where stirrup

anvils and hammers

vibrate harmoniously

FAKE YOUr OWn Death

FAKE YOUr OWn Death

–

–

like a wind-up toy whose feet catch

and whose plastic parts seize,

 –

tapping on the table

a tiny tune of tragedy,

–

and when the child’s eyes

sallow with A.D.D.,

–and wander for turkish delight–

 –

and when the cat

misplaces his interest,

–his white kid gloves–

 –

Whir away.

Unstick your molded feet

and whirr away. Off the

table with a mighty clatter that

fetches Anna the dog. Whirrr away

under the sofa

Where you’ll build your Eldorado of dust

And wear your fruit loop head piece,

And finally find time

to make (your own) believe.

tha blu projektor screeen

tha blu projektor screeen

it grwos beofre my eyes

egdes expnadnig

 –

theer’s a cluod of blu

aurond it, vauge

is it a windoh? A p­­–o-ol?

 –

–tha profsseor’s shaodw

thowrn dacning llike demons carwling outt of tha f-eye-r

danm drity walplaper

 –

Screeming

–it-‘s flat

 –

Eye’m thowrn intu m’I seet

llike comnig ouwt of tha rabit whole

backwords

Calm

Calm

 –

The butterfly souldier unfurls his tongue like a bedroll

And pierces the flower as quickly as a fixed bayonet

breaks through the skin of an apple.

(What it was doing there I don’t know.)

He pierces the bubble of the nectary, the crystal ball foretelling

Babies and coffee cups.

His sugary fix trembles a bit in his delicate dancer’s feet and

he leaps up into the air, blackflipping,

elated with a sense of temporal wellbeing,

the worries of the calendar at bay.

For now.

At least until he’s floated down the stream

that carries every butterfly away from his flower.

Thinking Ahead

Thinking Ahead

 –

 –

I think

my hand on

the small

of your back

 –

Feeling your

warmth

through the

flannel shirt

 –

was a memory

taken

from tomorrow

by me

 –

I like watching

movies by

myself

just fine

Lust

Lust

–

–

Little Red Riding Hood’s looking at the wolf,

The Wolf is behind a newspaper,

dragging on his fag,

with two telephoto lens cameras,

whom he calls Hansel and Gretel,

hanging on his sides,

Red knows he’s waiting.

–

Little Red Riding Hood’s staring at the wolf,

The Wolf is holding a newspaper,

smoking a cig,

with two wide angle cameras,

whom bring the bread crumbs,

draped about his sides,

Red unwraps her cloak,

it falls on the floor like a crumpled semi,

Red crawls onto the bed,

the silk sheets against her thighs;

–

Red dances in front of the fountain,

A shrine to grandmothers, and the earth,

Red steps in the cool water,

Its cold embrace embracing invasively,

The shimmery metallic mermaid-scale coins slide under her feet,

The waters reflect her face,

Red wishes . . . a wish . . .

self-taught poet

self-taught poet

 

 

flexing the muscles in your tongue

suppressing the gag

the toothbrush grinds away the malodorous coffee stain

a necessary affliction

the price of an existence between

the quiet hour, stinging-eye, sticky-palm, poetic creationism

and university business

 

as if what you do isn’t business

 

let them keep their busyness, anyway

Kazi

Kazi

–

–

Who do you think of

with the smoke of cigarettes?

A dry, unsweet smell.

No, not who? Where? Where, then. Where?

–

Do you think of the morning, cold and clear:

Filled with the sound of sun and it’s reflection

Across your greasy glasses,

In a courtyard of bricks and unvarnished wooden benches

–

The frozen pond foot

prints followed in snow: falling,

Flow the black water

–

And do you hear his laugh

Standing around scratching his middle eastern beard?

The hand-rolled cigarette

Ostensibly waved about;

His white teeth

As you discuss the day’s philosopher

–

Admiring him like you’ve never admired yourself.

–

Discuss your love and

Your hate (and your love?)[?] Realize

Sameness, meditate.

Assayer

Assayer

that if we look through flames at people,

quite plainly we shall     see

(between eye and some star):

–

the comet’s flame is like our flames,

with the same nature:

the star’s blaze is a candle’s fire—

both can and we’ll be snuffed.

–

though the blaze be brief

and the fire steady

and because of a day of sunshine

breaking the night better

than overcast years,

be one of the stars,

give not to the fears.

–

we are now only ourselves

—never photographs—

—nor dreams—

—(isolated in time)—

so why look to sea

if ruffled hair

and disorders are all there will be?

instead leave it to others to look on our cowlicked Sundays

for though some stars somewhere are already dark, they burn brightly here.

Ashes

Ashes

 

It shatters into ice-tray chips

That melt to ashes in the atmosphere,

Softly floating down to you.

 

Flakes landing in your front yard

Like the burning leaves of autumn,

But then blowing elsewhere

Caught in the breath of heaven’s air.

 

Can a child collect

The ashes of a heart

And roll a snowman on the lawn?

 

No answer is certain,

Not even the coming dawn,

And my wanderings, like the ash,

Wonder on and on.