v devilupments

i – global myth eviscerated by the vacuums of private hell: culture goes pop – we clap, talk, show
ii – caring not for stars, only what preceded stardust
iii – i have known the ocean as bait; “necessary to shake off pretension,” it said
iv – swallow the adjective before ingesting the noun
v – does the knife believe in the efficacy of cut or was it taught to believe that?


The tread on moonstalk quietly slips
past what is

good what can be thought as good – the
quill depends

on moonstalk just as the night reposes
its trust in the

etch of a bewildered sun     there is no
more sky to burn

the apposite of power

i. the argument goes pffft, anagrams of dissent do salaams to the gregariouness of maul / an argument it is, less tender than all the pretentions of propriety huddled together in Siberia mid winter, reaching for the bulb of cold in the midst of an argument gone awry – the chill factor is zero –

cooption in verse is to snitch on the living idiom of the oppressed, making it palatable for the high lords of culture, informing them thus of where & when to strike next – quite simple actually

ii. do I dot plantain eyes with tees of spent disdain? if so, does grass bother and settle? if it does, where will the pain of mud run away? so much for the dotting of plantains; better to mix with straw and eat raw than belch with the caw-caws of the mildew forest – this, this I say is winter –

how to resist? by choosing an idiom that gets stuck in the throat of power – also pretty simple

iii. I parked my levitation, my want of levitation, by the lamppost, and it lit the shocks, the sharp knells of a hungry bulb – the past was never this clear – nothing is made merrier by lynching the roots of flight –

fear is a distant wolf

When we roll the dice, our
daughters scamper – we tell

them fear is a distant wolf –
they walk away not believing

we wait for the sound of their
feet, but we falter in listening

caught in the frenzy of bloodspill
land is where our feet meet clay

the burr of my poem

children kiss us
we are going through dream

– Audre Lorde

I meeked the poem on to a sunspilt
star, and it

growled        the purr of it was tinsel
                       but I granted it
                       my weasel and

it purred again        the burr of my poem
is gone, or

has it?            we long for transitive verbs
                       when we could easily
                       be content with riddles

We are going through dream
and the children

know which dream to live &
which to slay        the

song too knows but words
get in the way –

٣ word wrestles

hoarfrost, iced munitions led
astray by

word, by Word – gift of song
rift of Song

by word        heard wrath, slept
as the chain

of verbs belonged: they woke
in disarray &

chain, the sweat of their mirrors
unbridled now –

morning as errant song, the gift as mend
as the architecture of mould
this would of

wear & mendicancy! how the strain of rinse
builds fences, how it stains
the oak of pale

an unpried zone, withheld with whose bark?
       solitary perhaps with
       saturn’s name, which

saturn, you ask? tuneshot with tuesday’s age
       unhooked perhaps with
       my master’s rage, which

master, you ask?