Wednesday, April 17, 2013

A weaving lesson

The threading of a blanket is nonetheless made of many single paths. It is unclear what I mean by this, if it is literal or if what I mean is that I am lost. Or if both are true, and being lost is an action performed by the blanket, of which I am the object. What is clear is that, even in the darkest uncertainties of one's existence, there is a blanket, there is loss, and there are many threads.

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Obituary in headlines

Colonel Feeds Boy Walnuts
Shells/Casings Litter Colonel's Stomach
Colonel Reclines with Boy Lapped on Chair
Brown, Tobacco Brown, Colors Chair
Tobacco and Gunpowder Stain Colonel's Fingers
Fingers Clutching Skull, Colonel Kisses Boy's Forehead
Boy Stained with Tobacco and Gunpowder
Colonel Survived by Chair, Boy, Stains

Friday, April 5, 2013

How to read a poem

Alan Watts once wrote
that to describe
an experience
is to fail
to divide an inch,
an infinitely divisible inch.
It is pointless,
impossible to clone
in words
the experience.

A ceramic mug
of spiced red tea
loses its hyena's jowls
in metaphor.

loses its gut's imploding-star
somewhere between
O, V.

So what's left
for words
to say

is like words
and words are like

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

Your gray hour

In the world's approaching shadow,
from the sliver sun dusk,
wind flutters its pigeon-down
across your skin.

Only in this fleeting hour
does your migration's path ride
currents of air
with everything soon to dissolve
in the night.

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Collisions at bedside

Twist this metal frame around;
if this is the closest I come
to being held,
at least let time slow let
physics twirl
as they may.
Implode glass;
if this is a story about stars,
let sunlight twinkle, twinkle,
across the shards,
and let your voice
be a soft narrative arcing wind.
Life driving toward some kind of
any kind of
contact, violent
My favorite part is when our hands touch
and as I drift away you ask,
What would you like me to read tonight?

Monday, April 1, 2013

Oral mother sky parable

The cloud looks like dry ice over the moon,
and this you say is your proof God is a tweed-
suited mourner with a pinwheel hat. Well, fine,
I'll say.
Someone better tell Him to wise
Now the cloud
the moon
And you say, That
ain't no man's silver