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Latest blog posts

The third: nonesense (or, a pictoral of my room)

line one: a flute on the wall
line two: wrapped in strips of black cloth
line three: the boy fights long-toothed dragons
line four: he holds his sword blazing
line five: the world stares down at a wooden floor
line six: the panels reflect the names of cities
line seven: clothes are draped over a suitcase
line eight: a white-collared shirt and a receipt bag
line nine: an elephant shoehorn hanging on the wall
line ten: the plastic trunk has faded
line eleven: a mirror tacked onto a poster
line twelve: it reflects the closed blinds

line thirteen: as the color streams through the room,
line fourteen: the shadows are illuminated

Published: September 23, 2006 | Comments: 0

The second: about a stone

Mesmerized by the inconsequence
of a single act of unrequited brilliance
the young boy steps forward and
while settling his mind on a small stone
placed in the palm of his hand, he remarks
to himself how beautiful God has made
this stone, how the edges are perfect,
the color glorious like the end of a sky,
the size is a bite-sized rendition of
a romantic song; then taking the stone
in two fingers he lifts it above and throws,
the stone cascading through the sky like
a fallen bird, steering through the mists
until it lands in a lake, splashing
in a torrential burst, the waves on the water
flickering away from the impact, escaping
the realm of the immobile.

Published: September 23, 2006 | Comments: 0

The first: green men

Woe upon those men of green,
who sink beneath the land,
they thrash and wail and scream and haunt,
but nothing does ever come of their want.
They are the men who live within,
who live alone, unfeared, untouched,
those men who we forget to see,
yet live our lives and daily be.

They dance upon a rolling green,
with grass so strong it cannot bend,
the clouds are made of wires,
the sun is a terrible fire,
the hawks that fly above
sing songs like disharmonious doves,
and the little green men
who sink beneath the land,
can only breath and shudder.

Published: September 21, 2006 | Comments: 0

Words Just Because

Corporeal, we will feel,
the bite of life’s last drop.
That time comes like a fallen top,
rushing to meet our doomed doom zoom.
Fantastically, we fling rascally,
amazingly, we sight flirtateously,
but below the belt of azure’s wrath,
within the glare of knife’s bent gaze,
we sweep the porch of sightly might,
clear the ivory-covered kite,
flow into the golden-hued air
on wings of trespass; it is night,
we are our generation’s last hope,
to save the rest of them with only a rope;

a rope?
yes, a rope.

Published: August 28, 2006 | Comments: 0