The caustic rope

The tapestry which feeds the
Caustic rope binds me, you to

A river – Let us swim this dark
Morning to feel the pinch of

Wet & the itch of salt against
The verbose redundancy of tide.


the rekindled beat

the rekindled beat, the hearing
heart that sends no echo of

sun, the brazen day mulling rain
as it deepens the uncharted, the


we call, we sing, we cry, we do-
the act is solemn silent stammer


the games not played

I. May 5, 2002
I have come out to play in
The sandbox of

Heaven, in the time it takes
To count the beads

Of wracked time, I will test
The shores of a

Beaten throng, a million
Smiles, smoldering.

II. January 12, 2016

the demon storehouse of untapped
   soil, the

chances not supplied with oxygen,
   the games

not played, the full thrust of 
   action not

known to muscle or throat or to
   fresh ink

For my nephew, Hasan (May 5, 2002 – January 12, 2016)


inch of pain

Crying out the gory ink, inch
Of pain, of

Wrack, this solitary act of

With the gum of the titillating
Shack of

Love, its accoutrements daily



tiny riverbreath swells

each tiny riverbreath swells
somewhat tepid answers – being
small disqualifies pretence

of grandeur – answers that
cling to sense of smell, a
remembrance shaken – nay shocked –

off its incipience; the quell
of this riversense with tepid
answers will soothe no priest

nor arbiter of command, nor
collector of largesse, nor seeker
of larger truths that thrusts

thrushvoice with godtrust, loudspeak.


The story of a forgotten want

The reminder is a double lack, a lack of being fully in the present and at the same time a lack of having left something essential behind. Filling out the now is as urgent a calling as reaching out for a more full yet-to-be. The wanting in both cases is lacking for want of remembrance.

The story of a forgotten
Want is deep in yesterday’s

Hell, knows how the crop gets
Swollen, how the knees will

Budge and hell shall muster
Up a croaking knell; to feel

The words swelling up your
Throat: an itch, a reminder.


Nighttime is relevant

The poem seeks to be anchored in the sense of belonging to earth. The longing is reciprocal: the moorings will yearn for words that are meant not to soar but to go beyond an earth that is more human, more earth.

Nighttime is relevant to sense of smell, enduring
Dayfright, catacombed histories breathing out a
Weary how and when. Nighttime is redundant to sense;
The carriage of the inarticulate is not language but
The founding of it; nighttime is vilified in relation
To sense as unknown prepositions presuppose, propose

A finality of song; the roll of thunder, the slosh of
Riverfins, the thump of the mountainbrew, each the
Accompaniment of the unsung harp or the known trumpet?
An annulment of wordforms seesawing for adjustment,
Angling for a hearing, and mouthing of precious harms
To be undone by a revisitation of forms at nighttime.


The dismantling of trope


The incessant trope, and its
Dismantling - tasked
              With necessity

The broom of loud taste will
Crumble - slow first
              Baked arriving

As one does with open leaves
Untangling - deepens
              Rusty cravings

the poem sheens out a translucent
whim – and to

think otherwise is to reverse its
agreement to form and the parrot
of form; the poem thinks itself

out of a halo and goes back to null,
an afterpoem.