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 poetics of justice

the poetics of justice are languid,
true, but to a point – at which it must

fail to act as intermediary, as mirror
to fact preceding and after; it’s an

outliered form of harmony where all
that matters is not necessarily rhythm

but a certain terseness of bell, a
balled out veracity come out to play.

five soft tangents

when dream of craft catches
breath of

river, strum of the fire’s
longing for

sun, and the soft purr of the

snow, the beak of the pen is
spoken for.

the denouement of hope is a cat skill
played out in solemn

tones of a lurid yellow, thrust in
the tomes of a

fairy tale ending, the crumbs of word
skills that speak

life, speak air, speak soil; the rift
softens the glare.

Reason in dissolution goes

East howls silence if it
Is to

Be heard; the lords often

Scared, and as well they

the folk swoon catches the
hard edge of

reason, its not so tender

and contours that outline
death’s vane

and vine; the softness of

the alphabet soup of soft
ness is

warm; curdle the rein of

while milking the flower
of pain;

no point in silting blood
when the

gods of winning are crying

If only the young were trees

“When a tree becomes a boat it learns to swim. When it becomes a door it continues to keep secrets. When it becomes a chair it does not forget the sky that was once above it. When it becomes a table it teaches the poet not to be a woodcutter.”
Mahmoud Darwish, “If only the young were trees” from “A river dies of thirst”.

The poet teaches the sky not to fall,
the ink not to dry at 
                    each drip of the woe-man's
                    sorrow; and it teaches
    not to withdraw 
                    its love for want of a tiny
                    thunder waiting on the other side.


I grapple with the word-form, the
verb-act, the similitude and the
norm; word opposes word in stream;
the begetting of meaning and its
arousal – beset by cloud, cut off from
the arm that inks each word, where
will the sigh announce its opposition?

“Reality is very, very contradictory, and so I try to write just perfecting what I see, what I read, what I feel, in a feel-thinking way. Not only giving ideas, or receiving ideas, or trying to explain something, but mainly feel-thinking, a feel-thinking language able to tie the heart and the mind, which have been divorced.” Eduardo Galeano