Little, slight, bolt


Little, slight, bolt: this breath
                          as vial
              tombing towards red

                     the strut of
                           dare &
the polite underpinnings of flame 


This deathliness, this straw that gums
    mask shame banked horror midstream
    this broad, this upworld and drown

Will wilt? sawed through the myriads a
    clasp of blue suffices and browned
    it marks the shrewd path to denial

I tempered hook, the gait of
sallow noon

I mixed each nut of how and
vetted moon

I crucified the box and hum of
then & soon

I broke chalice, mirror, tune

Poet as hark

– Poet as hark
As thimble, ear, sense of what
As hark – where the sense of what gives ear to

Wednesday – where each noon is assembled, bled a

As sense of when; harm is pillow; dire
Banked – where we growl away the sense of where

– How does the poem listen?
How does the poem listen?
With the

Bulb of the pen in still
Ness giving

The moon a month to stare –
How does

The poem listen? as agree
Ment to

Stay on course as the jet
Of ink

Relents; off course the well
Blurts out

There is a source I draw from, a source

for the leaf to wither now as it is time
asking for the
                       gin of yester
day to cease to 
this source where dank mixes with sweet mixes with musk

And this tomorrow

How far is the world of song from this
Song   how tame
       belief/shore/trick of

How far is the theme of art from this
Heart  given
       syllable/tenor/bauble of

How far is the game of rules from this
Gruel  shame
       bellows/wandering/thaw of

“I do not need freedom when I’m dead.
I cannot live on tomorrow’s bread.”

Langston Hughes

And this tomorrow   I am afraid
    Wilt/smother    I am afraid

The dead are made, the
    Round                scared
    Will the seeker anticipate?

I do not need freedom
    For this I am dead,  scared
    And fortunate to  speculate

the taste of foreknowledge

No not the blanched wholes
   not my vastness diminished
          crime of voice
          here             no
   supple somethings wishing for hinge
   hardened brows willing violet/soothed

“I fear knowledge of my hunger” – Jean Toomer

And the taste of foreknowledge that
Sickles my

Being carved out of a leeched necessity
I fear the

knowledge of east as it is only
Blood that

Greets and blood that steeps my


A fear of place, of
breeding to

Haunt the place, of
want and if

Of place, the trove
giving love

Of place, the trove
matching it

And mess of place -

If it is possible to have in language – popular or literary – hooks that thrive on an awe of the hallowed; words, poems, books that convey the sense that the key to this fascinating ineffable lies in somehow giving up your voice in favor of the few who have crossed on to the other side, the side that looks down only to be relieved; does that not goad us in forgetting genocide every took place, and even if it did, what’s the big deal?

This tree will not sound out
Beginnings; it will not prepare
A crowd to tumble the heart’s

Mend to a clearing; more acid
Is the earth’s bile dream believing
Catacombs to be phoenixes, armor

To be insufficient and the roots
Of earth as linking the ends: here
Where it starts and the outmost in

most there.