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Caught longing for a more complex time
I was quickly reminded such moods were anathema.
Worthy of prescription.
Punished by conscription
Into a war of pretending to be something easily defined.
What happened to renaissance men
battling until exhaustion just to find
one person to provide succor against
the tide of mediocrity, and in that initial rivalry
finally reclining in the tender grasp of friendship.
In this age, we are the informed
but ultimately uninspiring
participants in labeling and categorizing endless
mundanity. It is not that bad. But that is perhaps the worse part.
In all the cold barren scarred tundra faces
that slump there is something clean.
Something sterile and safe.
Something desirable about a time whose only virtue
is how nice it all is. The word every person lands on
when they can’t say anything else.
It somehow hangs on the vaguest definition of compliment
but in a way that only serves to undermine
the complete lack of qualities in our frozen landscape.
A nice day for a nice people. A nice age.

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Rewind to find
a start to which we affix
this place – where we are who.
Hope it sticks.

The body is only part of us
if we love or hate it.
Otherwise no – it cannot be our who.
Hope we can sate it.

The me that is free
is too good to not be true.
But the plant that grows has roots.
Hope its you.

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I was told,
growing out if not up,
that you can’t make your own nickname.
But in madness reborn
who hasn’t?
What we play is life.

There cannot be two
of you
In the actors guild.
Of course you can
but otherwise no
it won’t go.
So I strut, occasionally,
upon the stage
to legitimize my name.

Tower mine. Tower mind,
up if not out,
brick upon brick
word upon word.
And in those dreamy clouds
what we play is life.


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Birds sing, brooks babble, and trees sway
while the ax chops.
Hunks of tree flesh dance in a slight wind
and stick to the dewy bark
of a thing called man.

Sticky sweet blood runs.

Somewhere a blinking monitor
remembers the key strokes
regarding Marxists capitol
and Foucaultian power.
These heavens bear down on the man.
A sun too bright, a salvation too far removed.

A double helix composed of turned pages.

The forest howls at the loss of a friend,
a child, a mother, a brother, a life extinguished.
Here in the pulsing womb of creation
all falls silent when the slight wind dies.
The clockwork devil, unlike fire and trembling earth,
pauses to adore work and creation
before eloping with the corpse.

Imagine, now the future.

The thing called man and wife adoring
their things called son and daughter,
who like hurricanes blow aimlessly around
the cabin the thing called man built for them.
Unlike fire and trembling earth,
they pause to adore work and creation.
Not unlike bird, or brook, or tree
but for the ax hanging over the fire place.


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The child creates stories in the sky.
Wonderment burning like the endless
see of juggernauts.

Paper lanterns.

Folded, like endless cranes and twinkling
in the exact way that chimes sound.
The incomprehensibly tiny
made insignificant
by the perspective of an ant
on a blue marble swirlie.

And inside the black hole
compresses this infinite moment
into a dense core that even
memories can’t escape.
The fabric of her eyes bends me
even now.

Strings. Not unlike music.

My paper lantern heart vibrates
when she calls, like Mars
in retrograde. As if someone
out there is tracing
with a finger only to find
the rest of reality falling behind.

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For a moment
I sat in the quiet of the day
and turning over a newspaper
stared into the wanted section.
At first I did not read
but as my mind slowly bent
to the entropy of habit
I had to make myself not read.

I forced my eyes to cross
and blur before an errant
nodule of information
could catch my interest. Finally zooming
my lenses in and boxing out
the peripheries I meditated
on the distance between ‘s’ and ‘t’.

Sonnets tangled in the granularity
of recycled paper throbbed under the pressure
of unchained wonderment. Space to space to space to…
Infinity. Infinite spaces abutted each other
just under the pristine layer. And living in those infinite spaces
was every thought every person has ever had.
I threw the paper away when it no longer enchanted.
Not for you or me, but for all of us.

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I Hate Moths

What about Dallas makes people shoot people
and why don’t I care?
It started here. With bombings – homemade
coming soon to Etsy –
Some ran for fun, others ran for their lives.
The five o’clock news features
the hunt for the other –
justifiably vilified and disliked on Facebook.
That was outrage.
Now my sausages thump against my laptop.
stuffed with a mix of condescension and exhaustion.
Seasoned with sarcasm
(the death of communication)
and yet, ash in the mouth that tastes like sugar.
What is it for? I’m sure some poet
is fossilized at Pompeii, wrapping bloated
meet sacks around a chisel
scrapping out warnings. Global warming has
never been so real. Yet, he is dead.
We are dead. You are dead.
Outside, a gypsy moth invasion
covers the northeast in abhorrent life
and I write my least favorite poem.
I hate this poem.
I hate moths.

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