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Wednesday, December 31, 2008

invisible ice

the wind visits from the artic north
and i cannot believe how much invisible ice
it holds in its mouth
meanwhile this hero's roof rattles
under the strain of having a piss pot
a pager and telephone to protect
under one wide brimmed hat
my beard scatters its grey fingers
that are left awry in a gesture of the wind's
i incubate my ashes
it is december and everything feigns death
in a riot of hidden whispers
listen to what i have to say it seems to say
in an undertone of chorused urgency
but the straw hat over my wife's left breast
lifts its lid and i see
her completely naked for first time
since she was born
even the bed sounds like cobblestones baking
in an oven of yeasty haste that fills
the sky with an odor of whipped saliva
blue in the distance
where the sun cannot warm the stones of its moon
neptune is predictibly unpredictable
i get a snow shovel and spit at myself
missing by a barn's square yardage
while breakfast is being devoured by the connoisseurs
of bacon drippings and french fried yams
that levitate over their plates
it is the wind again
it is invisible with silver muscles

Saturday, December 27, 2008

the heist of the century

The bank robbery was planned assiduously
it was the greatest heist of the century
perhaps in all of history
since the sacking of Rome
our emperor was bewitched
but he did what the thieves demanded
the victims had given their money away
years ago anyway
so now they were empty handed
and didn't even realize they had been had
all went according to plan
the banks got away
and didn't care who went mad
as the economy tanked
rumor has it
they are laughing all the way
to their banks

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

a few breaths

i woke up when the phone rang
announcing that the owners manual was here
but where here is is a mystery
a cloud settles on a leaf
in a snow storm
hungry blue dogs roam in the tune
of the first wind passing through
an aeolian harp
the pink sperm stands up in an egg
and is scorched brown in a xerosere
you get three breaths
and you can't hold any one of them
for more than a few minutes

Wednesday, December 17, 2008


all of my pockets are clones
of an original pocket
that was manufactured in a sweat shop
in order to hold more
of the same

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

green backs

anything for more money
she said
and it spread like fire
in a paper factory
where the workers made minimum wages
which made her rich
after awhile all she could see were green backs
not a trace of a face left in her memory
she piddled and frittered and shammed everyone because
everyone resembled a dead president
who had just taken the oath of office
with a knot of promises for a necktie
and today's special... the menu announced...
but all she heard was a cough
from the coffers
and a distant jingle
and spiked heels clomping on marble floors
under a five thousand dollar suit
she felt fine
she felt sexy
she was pushing open the doors of the courtroom
and she knew she was going to win

Sunday, December 7, 2008

memory's memory

a memory has many memories
attending every remembrance
even the one that forgets
to remember
is a memory of a memory
a forgotten memory
a memory that forgets itself is
the shadow of a memory that
wears your face
a mask masking the time
and place where the ocean breeze
fluttered the hanging green and white
and the smell of salt in the air
and the blue light reflected in a dazzling
moment that had no memory
but the times before it
without its scent and feelings
its touch its taste and slow burn cooled
by the green waves of the atlantic
and the small foot prints in the wet sand by the edge
of the sea tracking
the hard run from the chasing waves
and the popcorn vendor on the boardwalk
and being lost in the crowds and finding
the shells that no longer litter the bare beaches
all that is lost now from that moment among
days when the future weighed immeasurably more
and the youthful muscles were made to carry it
back and forth into the future that was being filled
with memory’s memories of work and play
is now a memory's forgotten memory
in a shadowland we call today

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

one wife is not enough

koala~sized in the fog covered valley i made my way from tree to tree
unclinging as i clung
one arm behind holding on
the other outstretched groping in the mist
for the next hand~sized branch
hold your fire gently in your mouth
i heard through the upholstered air
muffled in a muzzle my bullets shivered
then a sign appeared in heaven
to make me smile
one wife is not enough
hubbub to complain about in such a witnessless whiteness
so i stopped dead
the earth smoked
the trees gave up and went away
the roads crumbled from the program notes
despite an auspicious triple conjucntion
with a lag time of
3 or 4 months

Monday, December 1, 2008


imagination is a wall
that moves
i ran into it headlong
years ago
it trims all the bushes
it makes governmental
decisions and
paints the days with colors
from paint factories
i completely forgot myself
and walked straight into the conference
but i didn't know anybody there


there must be a way
without this ambitious colloquy
with a god that doesn't exist
with a purpose that is a chameleon of changing
without these predictable outcomes
for every action
there must be a way
to live like the horses in the field across the road
who do not stop dead in their tracks
to watch the sun sink below the horizon
who do not collect orange and purple sunrises
there must be a way
to be
without lying my way out of myself
a helping hand that understands itself without my signature
one step behind the next
without directions or expectations
or a memory that distorts every footfall with recollected fears
without laying claim to the road
or the labor and its suffering dissolving
into nothing
i am tired of my insomnias
and my disappointments with competing appetites
i am tired of eating
i am tired of fighting
i am tired of creating what has already been created
and marketed countless times
i am tired of falling down
and tired of getting up in the dark
there must be a way to live
beyond the chemistry and physiology
of this unknowable alchemy
these transformations into transformations
without the promise of turning into gold
there must be a way to live in a house
without being owned by the household
without being callous apathetic or bought
and sold
there must be a way
but there isn’t
so i stand under a black tree in the black starless predawn
and talk with my forked tongue to the invisible lightning
that doesn’t exist until it does