• It

    It

    isn’t

    weird,

    the lack

    of haunting

    since your inner

    was

    extinguished

    by

    a deluge of outer,

    storm

    of

    normal.

    The lady

    at the pharmacy

    was really bright

    like

    in

    a shellacked

    dream of community,

    looking

    listeningly, and

    saying antiquated

    things

    you

    never

    realized.

    I woke up

    in

    this

    unrecognizable

    form

    again,

    to say this.

  • Parable of the Sown

    Riding the 3

    over the void

    and up the hill,

    germinating

    with the seedy

    underemployed.

  • The Poet

    She had such thoughts

    no music could

    encompass, so

    she let them go

    to whitherhood

    on windy aughts.

  • Echt Gnarl

    Nobody cares

    that you are here,

    says the city

    where your last root

    gasped, phew! in a

    slow decision.

  • Soothe for Ache

    Three teenage boys

    underdressed in

    pearly spring March

    gash a window

    thunderingly,

    eager to run.

  • Hymn to the Blood

    I accept the one father

    who giveth and giveth more

    as my own, and the mountain

    awaits my return.

  • The Cost


    Who’ll bring the darkness

    that we like so much on earth

    to measure


    and rue, in our sleep

    waking through the daily news

    as we unfurl theragenic sighs?


  • Where I’ve Never

    Where I’ve never

    been

    is

    calling

    from before

    like an animal

    in the night

    off

    the trail

    in a language

    I finally understand.

    There is a cottage

    in a copse

    near the village

    where you belong

    too.

    The television

    was sometimes

    right,

    like

    my father,

    the winged leaf

    off the puritan

    maple,

    capable

    as falling.

  • The Gallivanting Sort

    Mind the rapture

    you cannot feel

    sagaciously

    and walk alone

    to the surreal

    imprimatur.

  • Warming to Apogee

    My history

    of affection

    for the tired face

    of a morning

    isn’t written

    entirely.