• 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.