blood will be spattered on the wall
by the second paragraph
with a broad brush…
before it dries
the light without you stays within…
tired and worn out rose hips and tulips
glow in the brown aftermath of playtime
around a kiss in the sand box…
hard and cold now
remembering when
the totemic twist fetishistically touched
its shadow lips with a number…
telescopic tred walks into the trunk of a tree
with gray hair in its vice…
and the relics of recall stitch the pink fingers
with Braille…
why does everything suddenly seem so small
my hopeless hopes
my finger's breadth
the palm of the martyr
the synonyms and their relationships
once a family
now the solitary vocable
muffled by rain at
the light by the door
why so distant
when I stand under it
why does everything in my anything
my always and my diminishment
last so long
when life is short
what is it that is so tiny
that it needs to be reduplicated
endlessly
this unspoken question that wants
its words
what is it that is so small it fits me
perfectly?
book
you fish
walking to school
that cold tree in winter
born to learn outside
on a windy night
revealing
the sand colored pyramid
to be is a self portrait
built of reptilian modesty
it is Christmas
without Christ
again
the wild December substitute
breathless puppet reading a black dog
sitting on his shadow
the fence jumps for joy
as the tender moment's apprentice
snows over the brickwork
her heart is featured
in the future rose
that sentinel
at the edge
of perception
the perfect mask easily covers my hands
those withered digits on the floor of numbered days
that pick me up as I head
for the door
once they were the size of silver dollars
made for making change
they were gloved with veils
like those over my eyes
and a hairstyle that spoke softly
of an unborn elegance
bones were blooming in a mirrored stare
here and there
I saw a lake beneath the mirror’s surface
and a window
hung up in a net of blue veins
I opened that sigh that bridge by the water
for the words
daybreak
nightfall
and the refund in scarlet fairytales
in dreams I could fly
by day I forced the sugar past my lips
with a happy sign held high
above my head
the night’s little arc made huge
by dawn even with the one way sign
on the one street
where the messenger
number 2
or ten thousand said
there was no one who wasn’t nobody
as if somebody could be
I argued with pain in the empty park
sleeping under yesterday’s news
but nothing gorgeous was hunting me it was winter
it was always winter one way or another
dazzle me said the oldest eyes imaginable
I dare you
unleaven another empty century of its solitude
what won’t you do?
what haven’t you done
with the doll and the gun?
under the face shell in the afterglow?
The Definition of Globalism
"the poor complain
they always do but that's
just idle chatter
our system brings rewards to all
at least to all that matter..."
