Thursday, June 02, 2005


The Throat of Winter, Evenings
In Demask, King
Of the Rumbling Spires

That’s life in the twenty-second
Commercial of childhood, only today
I discovered John McEnroe

Owns Gerhard Richter’s Girl
On a Donkey, the nature of perversion
Perpetually shifting as one’s dream

Dwindles in the lens
Or is lost adrift
The swifts’ delirious plunge

As gentle earthquakes pervade
As the little tear gland
Says tic-tac and petty octogenarians

Crowd the Lexington
Storefronts where teenage girls
Spill their blank

Guts between pages in the cloud
Book, waiting for Max
Ernst’s Science Fiction of Color

Summer correspondence
Course to begin, each
Benign conscience quietly plagued

By the interregnum, it is not trivial
This death we die not
Dying, the blur of sexuality

Metastasizing in blinks, I never
Imagined I’d marry
An aristocrat nor quote

Sections of broken Austrian
English, some stupidity
Is heroic, some heroes assume

The village children
Are blind, I can’t
Count the number of times

I’ve thought the world
Different only to find my fingers
Twittering in their familiar

Way, the reflective scallops
My nails make shaking
Like gusts furrowing a sail

I am too fraught
With this calligraphic
Landscape I speed

Too sure these unsteady words
Are like a frowning woman who wants
Desperately not to sleep

With me, if reality
Is temporal why not write
Poems the size

Of cathedrals, that’s life
In the ten-second
Opening of train doors don’t

Be afraid to give everything away.

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