Wednesday, July 21, 2010


Begins with openings
Of eyes;
of soundwaves and frequencies and windows of noise,
and lights and moods and
then movements.
Now begin the deaths of dreams
Contrived in oil spat onto printed pages,
Sleep-steeped streets
And Day.
Alarm -
It’s in your head, you said,
with your lack of a care as you sped past from kitchen to corridor to door
slam to station
and saw only what
Was at the next stop (comfortably
Landing your conscience onto an ear-phoned cushion).

Saturday, July 17, 2010


When I am a still
Tower of muscle and moping vowels
I taste the words inside my mind
And thrill-seek brilliance in words,
Until they live aside from
The set of letters, hoping
They will shine and gloss
The pause of sound that’s come with thought
I cannot bear to keep.
Stop to eat their syllables over,
And again. As if their shapes have swallowed meaning
Up in utterance and being, as if
You could ever love just with diction
Or I could feel alive through my words.