Poet as silence

As unmitigated sound    un
           tone of possible
           palpable presences

morning hints warily at
           at the tip of    trust
           of harbinged rhythms

to tug at the poetic handle
           scans sense of self
           as an unmundane possibility

true to beginnings    true
           the etched tenacities that
           bring to an end    –

the wind as bard

the wind as bard    which
      where did the tincture
      burn the

slowest? the wind as bard
      noose gathers
      loss as sisters try to
      forget &


When everything everyone is either an
enemy or friend or both there is no
time to pause and hence all the more
reason to    pause    the violence

of mere being has its moments    the
gratitude of having been intrudes your
present    it wants to discover what
lies lie ahead that would soothe the

grit of being    of having been    of
wanting to be a little less afraid
than absolutely essential to get by
get along with friends enemies both

the will as voice    no
heed    none

which the rasp of life
bade well

this kiln where the ink
boils life

into verse    the will is
voice heeds


coming to voice

                                     is there an interpretive danger that
                                     calls my soul to yours yet
                                     spills out errors
                                     spells our errors?     yes     I have trussed up
                                     garbage and so I know, and
                                     so I know    you cannot come to voice until you say no

the farce is plentiful, beatific, solemn    its doorknob knows why you sleep
the poems of disneyland are churn
their premise
their promise
is neverland


The ownspace for mind-
keep    the penance for being open to word
             this ownspace to mend

The gashes of yell,
tremor  preaching tremor    long knives as
              promises of metal

whence the turbulent tinder
whose house it was that burnt
which sun
       bore the killer’s knife
       edged into the voidless

the sharded imaginary

The poesy sharded in me    with
in walls off

guard    without gardenshame with
out the muscle

required to hum a pointless tune
within reason

Quick as the largeness of
loss of
design    quick as the mouth
                of each wound
    this ball of care    this suffering of love in arms that
    fall out of voice    out of knowing who where what to write