slow syrup in my sternum sweetens the lost leaves’ silver session
(First published in Under the Basho.)
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Sonnet
with what time is left listen to
air conditioners drop drop drop
on the used tea bag of summer
while the waves of heat hit you on
uneven shards of sidewalk—though
later perhaps you’ll find some sweet
solitude and dream some drip could
bring a forgotten bloom or rare
herb back but the brink keeps creeping
and that green shade so far away—
so retreat to concrete above
the noise but not the heat and make
a quiet in which your fingers
if nothing else may sprout some leaves
-
imagine the day fine and the gremlin
in the intestine who shatters the desk
before the final exam to stay warm
through an unremarkable winter may
smile before the surprise final exam
-
music from an escaping dream or an undigested night in which we finish the great & clever expense reports designed to ensnare the accountant of the faerie king
-
motorcycle noise at night cool after the storm with crickets and my neighbor’s creaking floor through my ceiling chamomile tea
-
three kinds of salty licorice a sweatshirt
with an immense kitten some Maple Almond
Cashew butter compressed white tea cardamom
seeds in their own grinder a pack of Sugru
a Kaweco Lilliput fountain penclick lick click but is it too late to pluck
the prized moon-blooming oh you’re back already—what did you say about the lack of laurels
in the breezy storage space—perhaps we
should look instead through an Olympic screen
to obscure the high and low so the worm may
spare my stomach on a warm winter day
-
no more synthetic motor oil
milkshakes from now on just
the nectar of golden
suffocation under a sudden
shower of compliments
for a one-star reviewand my hands remain clean. Though
this knife of yearsand never chose to explain. To this day
nothing grows there
-
in those dependent days they worked
nights and days and when home slept so
we had to stay quiet despite
the urge to loudly play so we
kept the TV low, laughed with the
laugh track and didn’t understand
spring and winter and spring again
-
before the day when the day if
but today
let a song slip through your fingers
find that last breath
barreling toward some release but
the sand in your
shorts the ice cream begins to melt
for a second
you forget that this is the way
the world moves and
that’s not
quite it either there was a kind
kind of light maybe
it falls and smalls and
smaller the world
spins people go
to parks interviews
you hear a voice
but the words garbled
maybe with a
little work but
that’s how it all
starts again freed
from one hole
you fall in another
-
I.
His clothes so out of fashion you wonder
if the gentle breeze from the willow will
shatter him into an ant hill of teeth
and trinkets you can sell at the marketII.
Your fabled jewel that could
end the conflict but when
you tell the story drops
of blood fall from your handIII.
Tended with a heat gentle as
breath until the crow bubbles up
soon you will understand her voice
as though you too were from the moon
-
New ebook!
Well, e-chapbook, really. I’ve been working very hard on this little collection of a dozen sonnets and I’m glad to say that they’re finally ready.
Here’s a sample. Enjoy!
we ran out of gas before we got there
metaphorically of course the car was
just an ancient generation’s notion
of freedom or some such so later whenwe seemed to be writing a story for
the new employer on the optimal
monetization of the eternal
memes (to avoid the friends convenience made—
their brotips and conversations like photos
of completely uncluttered interiors)we made a slow-motion escape attempt
but were swallowed by the slothy summerand rose at noon to find the cicadas
gleefully gone on their fatal picnicCheck out my books page if you want to see more.
-
If/Then
if fire cracks the mirror
then clouds may part to reveal her faceif night passes like a kidney stone
then the box is returned unopenedif the damp gets irrevocably in
then an unequivocal answer will be foundif the suburbs are raided
then your recipe will be forever changedif we ignore first principles
then insects will tire of carrying us
-
-
you almost broke your promise but never mind since the entire ecosystem is leftovers and punchlines of exhausting stories at brunch
-
when we meet at which cafe or museum shop
I will be all smiles and jokes but looking
left and right too often as though some shadow
but what are you watching these days what post
made you rage? this black mud around my feet
never mind I see your shoes are dark as well
but why don’t we talk about dessert instead
of the world war of the week or even
this flattening heat you say you saw something
that reminded you of something and something
something
so leaves a ghost
still hungry that refuses to tip
-
All the Parts
I
as in a dream in which we must play all the parts but self-consciously the work doubles and suffers as he turns to drink and loose video gamesbut unlike this dark wood newly sprung up around the house the chance of coffee or anything decent for lunch recedes
when we were stranded beneath the white waves it was only those voracious years of romance novels that saved the ship and sailors
so once properly cooled and decorated the cake of my previous actions could still prove delicious
it was never meant to last as long as it has though some seeds only sprout after a fire we never knew needed so much tending
and we started off so strong but whether we like it or not we’re in a purely habitual forest now
perhaps this is what the song is really meant to be about or could be under slightly different meteorological conditions
II
a dream self-consciously suffers loosewood around the house of coffee or anything for lunch
beneath the waves of romance novels that
decorated the cake of my previous could
as long seeds sprout a fire so
strong whether we like it or not
perhaps this is what is meant to be
III
as in a dream we play all the doubles and drink this dark coffee beneath waves only years of romance novels saved my previous actions never meant to last as long as though some started off strong we’re in a purely habitual song about slightly different conditionsIV
in a dreamthis dark house
beneath waves
my previous actions
after a fire we knew
started off in
perhaps this song
-
I am a dog walker I am cooking beans I am the misprint in the formula I am heavy snow at night the scrape of the plow I am bored and ashamed of my boredom I am eating cashews pecans sunflower seeds I am a deer of seven tines I am the sluggish pulse I am a new sound in the deep forest just once I am an empty bag of highly flavored corn chips by the off ramp I am the mistake that leads to greatness I am a wave breaking on dark rock I am a wave breaking on sand
other animals 