care my hands (haiku)

care my hands from yours
our bodies clasp together
no more statistics

dispose (poem)

lie over to me—

float like a bad black thought guided to its last night

die behind a gale blowing like bad tv

there’s no other way to say it

i no longer love you but

you’re welcome to stay til dawn

when everything is killed by our sun

the atmosphere destroyed in ages passed

hold my hand like a dead bird and

dispose of it

bids me speak (poem)

stupid ignorant poet fool

you think you have the right to talk of God and Roast Beef?

have you even begun to see the edge of the shape of God?

you are so dumb

while your lips bleed because they are too dry

Jesus Christ is bleeding the price of the world

humiliated as a geek’s chicken

in pain He calls you, promising Knowledge andRoast Beef

and the Love of God, the Father we share with Him

i, too, have no right to talk of God

yet

as is His fashion

He bids me speak 

nightdream (a prose poem)

Nightdream

As she often does in the dark, Sarah sleeps beside my turning mind. A wandering sketch of thought unearths salvation again. All my worries shrink, shrink. I try to grab them, but now they are too small, not even pinpoint stars. The sheets blankets pillowcases are only soft extensions of the darkness, though the room is typically quite real. Like a drug user, I am betrayed by the black terror of God’s eternity. My hands fly out for little troubles (bill argument disappointment—anything) but they only find the ancient braille at the edge. Open to the dark, my fingers feel for the first time words they signed millennia ago. Back when we dreamed of coming to Earth, and smiled straight back at our Father’s face.

Now, as if on cue, the goddess stirs. Inlaid with fire skin and intoxicating human weight, she descends upon me until I long to be in the presence of my family’s dead. I wonder, if only vaguely, what I thought real life was supposed to be like. Her eyes hair fingers transform from daily woman burdened to another part of me, a holy piece. I become woman and man alone. Our walls—so humbly white and bare—are the walls of a mansion, a palace, a temple. I know in the morning I will return to ignorance, so now I let the words escape in even tones: I am this night a god, vested in the burning gems of all future glory.

circle

it should go without saying (and maybe it does) that any poem posted on this blog may not be in its final form.

remember, a poet is two things: 1) never wrong, and 2) always revising

Circle

bump bump sway

nineteenth maybe eighteenth century

carriage bumps over a path of stones

left by no one

exposed rather than laid

a body dead at the reins directs

mortal horses beautiful flanks manes history

bump bump sway

inside

the southern belle sweats

not so striking as she once was

before all the sinning

she is soft flat asymmetrical

bony in some places

she asks the corpse perched on the driver’s bench

when they will be arriving

bump bump sway

it must be a million degrees

the trees are more like magma than anything

coals have long since replaced the grass

beneath the sun three maybe four moons also burn

she tells the dead she believes

they may have passed this particular flame before

bump bump sway

not watching the path

he turns to speak through a wooden grate

he says,

“I want your body.”