poems

• Foxhole Stoic

  Awkward gates the

  family way to

  anything real,

  lamb on the shake,

  hawk out to heal.

• In the Rye

  Lore takes the brave

  and the stupid,

  and we are left

  without a lid

  to seal their grave.

• Sans Fedora

  Clenching okay

  then letting go

  she rivers so,

  unsteadily

  trenchant of flow.

• Oh Gee, Oh Gosh

  I am an old type writer.

  I am an old-type writer.

  I am an old typewriter,

  with plenty of ink.

• In Answer to Echo

  
  We stay warm at night

  in the lee of ancient dreams

  messaging

  
  our oblivion

  from the tor of creation,

  through all seasons of benediction.

• There

  There

  should be

  a troll living

  underneath,

  in real

  life,

  is

  my

  final

  position

  in the politics

  of getting things

  undone

  in

  time

  for the jubilee.

  When everyone’s

  in

  line,

  we’ll begin

  the march back,

  guidons flickering

  in front of

  warm

  contingents.

  I don’t know

  how

  else

  to palpitate

  the pulse of

  a falling

  tree.

• The Good City

  Sewing style

  in cold, sagely–

  onslaught of ought–

  for slow saking

  of desire.

• Soar in the Ice

  Imperfect ground

  for the perfect

  seed of somehow

  an old relict,

  stilling around.

• Pre-haunting

  I’m half okay

  to be almost

  honing a raft

  of seaworthy

  for afterish.

• Lashed to the Stem

  The mythology of streams

  says agony is sculpture

  and moonlight is forgiveness,

  gradual for sure.