By The Way

Too late a version came close
to recognizing the path
between the decades, you
there absconding with the three
best arbitrations and seven
time-tested suggestions, leave
if you will to do no harm,
build no excess in the examples
with your short and outrageous sleep.
Starlings tucked into the easterly
props are props themselves
all the way from nest to flit,
a wrestle with national slaves
as sacred thoughts stream and gather.
Posterity wears our clothes backward,
while books struggle to cash-in.
An awareness of you in the layers
concocts a new revelation,
tight old secrets with lop-sided hats
hold up in transit
between ticket fare and gas station,
play rummy with old dolls and dragons
in the corner behind the hat stand.
The yawns knock over whole weeks at a time
while eons shuffle between our dust and ankles.

Dirt to Dirt

In the mean bag of your eyes,
in the tragic dent of your human
ears: the small sounds and lights
scatter ash in similes of sand,
how tiny are the explosions
in such strategies as days!
A pinpoint of diamond light
to find our wedded fingers
wrapped around an army
of enemy and kin,
the entire damned breed.
A production of paintings
truly on the head of a pin
amid cloaks of tar emit
a steady shower of moisture
and dust, a batch of mud
cakes and mystery. Peri-
winkles of time
in the lyrical ethos of myco-
bacterium that rescues
literature one last time
as it floats and flirts
in the four o'clock sun.
Between skin and salvation,
the universe erupts
again and again
on as much as a breath as a gust.

By The Way

Too late a version came close
to recognizing the path
between the decades, you
there absconding with the three
best arbitrations and seven
time-tested suggestions, leave
if you will to do no harm,
build no excess in the examples.
Starlings tucked into the easterly
props are props themselves
all the way from nest to flit,
a wrestle with national slaves
as sacred thoughts stream and gather.
Posterity wears our clothes backward,
while books struggle to cash-in.
An awareness of you in the layers
concocts brand new revelations,
tight old secrets held up in transit
between ticket fare and gas station
play rummy with old dolls and dragons
in the corner behind the hat stand.

A Day After

A frozen not yet suspension
of objects - their objects
some objects of their things
their things in merge
between practice - the public
pantomime ultra habitual
of their lives
in their own words
coupled with observations
undercycling a continuum
of events, theoretic social
metabolism and the history
both symbolic and non -
enormous tracts of people
organized by color, size
effort, delinquency, car
offspring and times
to data base per week -
these are the items of
the universe - the shape
a redemption manifesto
in Divine Love
as part of forever.
Here is where taken apart
it is all examined
for a nation of gimmicks
in quota and realm,
here the clock
fixes and ticks.

So the War is a Collectible

What a strange surprise
it all was, ending up
here I still remember
scrimshaw.
Not useful but somehow
handmade, detailed,
and executed
with extraordinary skill
by human beings.
We had a neighbor
with technical abilities
predictive in nature,
the way he brought
the right things home
each time - the rumors
to the working girls.
What were they that year?
How many times had we spoken
and of course, he was right.
With robotic self-centers
entitled to myths,
scrimshanders around
the world were
obscuring - cutting
then obscuring again,
we were running,
crouching defending
and cramming. While
the rest was up-ending
we were soul searching
and blame-laying, observing
from the roof
at regular intervals, checking
for patterns in the muse.
On the balcony jets left
with threats and promise.

So the War is a Collectible

What a strange surprise
it all was, ending up
here I still remember
scrimshaw.
Not forthcoming but somehow
handmade, ornate,
plainly executed
with extraordinary skill.
We had a neighbor
with technical skills
predictive in nature,
the way he brought
the right things home
each time - the goat meat
to the working girls.
Where were these that year?
How many times had we spoken?
With robotic self-centers
entitled to myths,
while poets around
the world were
obscuring - rewriting
then obscuring again,
we were running,
crouching defending
and cramming. While
the rest was up-ending
we were soul searching
and blame-laying, observing
from the roof
at regular intervals, checking
for patterns in the muse.
On the balcony jets left
with threats and promise.

Poems Written by Poets

who have not heard
the uspsurge of a fighter jet,
not stood in line
with the lights out,
a basket full of rice,
beans, candles and soap,
the actual essentials of life

who have not packed up
or pleaded or hedged
about staying
to see just a little more
of the firepower of mankind,
to hear a few more
incoming whistles and whirs

who have not listened
to the radio and coralled
the family pets onto a balcony
to decide who to let go,
the hamsters or the cats?

Who read this and wonder,
why so angry?