Hieroglyph

Unwinding, hissing, passing eons out,
ballooning flapped, elastic: time’s disease.
The years deflated under winter drought,
while oceans were reduced to antifreeze.
Through complicated wars of circumstance,
in heat and dust, a few survived. Though stiff
at first, our body-language did advance
and printed verse became a hieroglyph
and sneezed. Exotic font and serif said
it all, to modern scholars looking back
from Times New Roman, Palatine, instead
of Courier, Papyrus, Copper Black.
The future pouring over poems found
the curvature of letter minus sound.

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Ides

Abeyant limbs stab the ides
with a flimsy shade,
Parked buds tumefy,
eddied in the tepid jetstream.
Lonely gaggle-strays
prematurely return,
stand selfishly straight
and ringnecked on a pond island.
Aviary music swells
beyond its clipped wings; blankets of feathers
break over pimpled birdflesh
in recurrent waves.
Hands of internal clocks sink
to a depth of the tallest hour,
while an unconscious violet
rises with a split clitoral petal.
Snow is razored by the sun
into clean shaven slopes
and intermittent springs
rupture the ground
reminding me
how winters lie.

 

 Wet Drive


The valleys stretch
and bow away
and I
unzip the land
in swaths
and glean the backdrop.
A blind-stitched
highway sewn
beneath
the sky with I-15’s
cats-eye and miles of blacktop.

Cartooned
through cobalt clouds,
the bands of light
are breaking prisms
caught reposed in angles.
The hoodoo
hanging vertically,
ignite
a multicolored
slab of rainbow
dangle.

No arc or ends,
the swatch above
a wide
parabola of sage
is flanked by storm,
dissolves and passes
on the driver’s side;
my weather
dropped from lashes,
rolls down
warm.

Digesting Gravity

We frittered our conversation away
on the brittle edges of selective
vocabulary. Words, pale and objective,
hung like sheets over clan members,
hovered foamy on the pushed tide
of pretense and squatters rights.

Familiarity was the carcass
of a wooly mammoth
we were stepping gingerly over
with verbs and run-on sentences.

In this public place, where once
we had whispered over flapjacks,
flirted around a breakfast scramble,
we met in a back booth
to discuss the terms
of our convenient disentanglement
above a final waffle
dusted with powdered sugar.

Some maple syrup got stuck on the
edges of papers we were so civilly editing
and for a moment we slipped
on the softened ice of easy banter.

Just then, gravity
forgot itself in the small café.
All of the cups and saucers
lifted with the silverware,
the apron on a waitress
floated up a bit…

Whipped egg whites of reconsideration
appealed with a weightlessness,
but the side of regret
was inedible.

Body/Parts

His fingers were 10
oil-stained paint brushes,
soaking up turpentine
in a mason jar.
His fists were crumpled
Pall Mall packages,
banked from the lip
of a waste paper basket
and collected on the floor
in cellophane clutches.
His neck was a damp bar-towel,
half twisted and slung diagonally
across a red-vinyl stool.
His jaw was a swaying screen door,
finding its true level on a set of hinges.
His cheek bones were the curtain-brushed sills
beneath open apartment windows.
His eyes were not the iron marbles
bouncing off of bumpers
and racking up pinball points.
His forehead wasn’t a smooth
gallon-jar of pickled eggs
set beside the cash register
and his feet were not a needle’s movement
after one side of an album.
His legs however,
were the long rails of green felt,
hugged by an eight-ball,
all the way into the corner pocket.

Rugged Ride

This place gallops
in layered altitude,
humps in crested waves
of rugged stone,
pitifully breaks in sprays of boulders
unrolling through low valleys.
It wears the shadow of a cloud
for mile after rearing mile
with the carefulness of asbestos lace.
Most savagely, rakes it’s willful stubble
against a vestal sky;
misbehaves on shelves
of ingrown cliffs,
balances water in the stubborness
of succulents at impossible
saw-toothed angles.
It lords over the grim
Joshua trees living among
their own bleached corpses,
twisting gnarled arms outward
gesticulating abandonment.

What We Know Sonnet

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Possessing not the insight found in time,
that wraps a journey unaware, and claps
inaudibly in cadence, fractal rhymes.
We yawp, express this life in tattered scraps
of what we feel and map what seems so new,
but is it fresh or just repeated strolls;
the human gait still searching for a clue.
Insisting on rewriting former scrolls
of dead ideas there inked by bygone blooms
of us. Immersed and yoked with joy and pain,
the wonder of encounters since the womb,
our consciousness evovles beyond the brain.
Alive, unchaperoned and forth we go,
from youth through death recalling what we know.