The ink has not given up

The ink has not given up its
Claim to blood,

Has not driven away dreams of
Reversal of

Fate, of salt worms claiming
Kingdom and

Fire and solemn trees winding
Songs of us.

The taut realities of a
Wire frame

Ground in urban thought
Sought sun

In the calamitous, cost
Of life in

The perishable; patches
Of fumbled

Downgrades – industrial


the rabbit’s foot

the rabbit’s foot of my sundown
is stuck at the colloquial cross

gate where simple creatures find
basic answers to small questions

the footprint of my rabbit’s care
is hazardous to ozone and charcoal

find the rabbit scurry through
a maze of geometric proportion


the opposite of flow

The day tore its maiden away from
A restless chore that chipped at

the knowing core, and when cold
Silence rapped its head on the salt

Of knowledge, the breath on her
Wall knew much, but not that much.

dogma is groveling in a shark’s
basin of blood; an

hour misspent miscalculated mis
timed; dogma is an

archangel, elephant-nosed, left
sightless as if an

effortless speech is graven and
triangulated often

It is the facile tilt of
inconsequence that creeps a

silent shame into a voluminous
bleed; an unholy bridge to

oppose the river of calm,
daring it to cease flow, plot

ting charter of the opposite
of rhythm; it fits in, this

loopiness, somehow, somewhat, in
this smorgasbord of discolor.

The tight lip of the sun’s
method to gladness is rife

with the burn of angels and
the care of retired quarks

orbiting at a level below the
moon’s celebration of night.


Sisyphus’ heel

the infinitesimal is utopian; it 
             behind the
curve that slopes ever 
   slightly, tends to
lest it fall behind further, at
which point there is no real
is there?

“Utopia lies at the horizon.
When I draw nearer by two steps,
it retreats two steps.
If I proceed ten steps forward, it
swiftly slips ten steps ahead.
No matter how far I go, I can never reach it.
What, then, is the purpose of utopia?
It is to cause us to advance.” – Eduardo Galeano

“In a race, the quickest runner can never overtake the slowest, since the pursuer must first reach the point whence the pursued started, so that the slower must always hold a lead.” – Zeno’s “Achilles and the tortoise” paradox of motion, as recounted by Aristotle.


The graze of the fire swarm

The graze of the fire swarm
Clocks twelve strokes
Beneath a full sun as if
Time is of their making,
As if the glow of the sun
Is willing to bend and run.

When the ripeness of a pungent
Noon stokes your eleventh
Hour eye, it breathes a large
Dream to shield the light from
Caressing an inner dark that
Yields to no dot of bright.

The hole in your oak tree is
Only to see through a barren
Drizzle, a lost visit by
The callous raven who sits by
Your arm and tells you to
Dream the flight of her love.


the radical joice

the radical joice that plays
    about the slay pen, that
    grays blue sky only to
    give back a tinier, shinier
blue, as remembrance & joy.

the radical joice that stays
    your heart's upper vent,
    and cleaves a banter, a
    slap, and a thunder clap,
will slow down & caramelize.

the radical joice clears out
    song of noon, the bits of
    charred tendons that climb
    a historical plank as dry
invective is loosened & tires.

The cost of debate

The cost of debate is a spat; core of
the argument is

To rave in the face of steel, as water,
As the kill of an

Antelope driven to the stream of

Thirst of cage and closure visits
The rag that is

A final yes, a defeated maybe.

The treble falls out as the
Note of rigor

Stalls; it’s the rhyme of a
Torn gash of

Rain that patters on an echo
Of private

Yesterdays and a manifesto
Of historicals.

The rigor syncs in with the fallowed
Small; the administered,

Untaverned solid mass of lovers
Out of bulb with the

Cold syrup of a ravenous torn, a
Vat of turmeric salted

On reams of arid paper, typed up
Fragments of recyclables.


the poem as body

the poem as body of
the homosapien, the act
                    of verse as the bond
                    that melds the distant
    adjective and the reticent
    noun, rhythm that floods
your eyes with mime.

where do the parchments fly off

where do the parchments fly
off and

coalesce, or wish to? Come
by this

house, a small fire burns
that will

warm the ink of your untouched

every nook every inch of my
armspan has

whiff of the arboreal air,
the grunt

and moan of the sun’s lapse
and its

tailspin; why does the moon
smell so?