it was in awe

– it was in awe

What the azure grape manufactured, it was
in awe   what the traipse of

howl despectacled, it was in awe   what
the speech spoked in spite,

it was in awe   it was in awe of the lump
of what mattered   the limp

of a hundred stolen lamps gliding out to
save the sun besmirked black

– a rhyme poem

the lift of each word slushes past hours   sloshes on each dock of intrepid subjunctive
this is the rule of flaw
this is want of wear   this is how usage crawls up to mood   its parlor adjectives
qualifying   the
rain in spain

Poet as will and (re)presentation

Poet as dialogue

as one whose speech has barbs of will
in each spate of

wordventure    the spite of an inturned
wall of verbiage

this talking    being oneself    as honest
as ten simplenesses

As underscream

which seething word did my voiced
underscream reach for?    was it

the curve or its sheath?    I conjectured
both    and which pith shone in

with diamond ball?    was it the
curl or its sieve?    I conjectured

abysmally even    even as the torn
pages remembered, reached, perjured

upon the lay of a seceded guile, a
wrapped up clutch of deliberatia

a dark unacceptable

Add to that list the poet who
rambles on in stolen dark    a
dark prepared in stark solemnity

a dark unacceptable to the lavish
word    the poem struggles to
breathe    it crosses over and

touches void    and here it
speaks attaches belongs    the
proverbial becoming adversary

We live of course in a world not only of commodities but also of representation, and representations—their production, circulation, history, and interpretation—are the very element of culture. In much recent theory the problem of representation is deemed to be central, yet rarely is it put in its full political context, a context that is primarily imperial. Instead we have on the one hand an isolated cultural sphere, believed to be freely and unconditionally available to weightless theoretical speculation and investigation, and, on the other, a debased political sphere, where the real struggle between interests is supposed to occur. To the professional student of culture—the humanist, the critic, the scholar—only one sphere is relevant, and, more to the point, it is accepted that the two spheres are separated, whereas the two are not only connected but ultimately the same.

– Edward Said, “Culture and Imperialism”


warmth of stain

Which sooted hand growls away the maimed compendium?
which ruckessed lark stains the door? which hide of
want warms the stain?

Which trained eye colors the roof of my hide, the
palate of unsoothables notwithstood? which turn of
want warms the stain?

Which eastern brook latches the yearn of the toothless
hark, the medieval spit of ancient dark? which rust of
want warms the stain?

Which sheathed gash beckons the song – beckons the
large of song – to tempt the fall & stay? which meet of
want warms the stain?

these actuals sit on harmony

Bound in an axis of concentric
actuals   these actuals sit on
harmony   sit on facts that insist
on a robust diminution   it eats

on the rust of epistemology   why
does history remember these bindings
so? whose humanity is precarious?
which thread of the unopened

rhythm cuts it teeth on the chord
of faith   of a discarded fate whose
term expires when harm has soldered
its care & the tree of heathens live

Some tree it is

Some tree it is that calls out the name
of blood   some link to fate as it tries
to become another   this balsam year
coos the trunk   this heart this heal
some tree it is that makes my sound
touch the green volitions which tore
pages   pages of no   pages of acceding
to power   some tree it is that mixes
blood   the name of blood   to fate

hand & eye

this here a stream   bound to
my dragon’s

flight   this here too a stone
thrown by my

dagger’s spine   which wood
carved that

lonesome hand   what engraved
that eyesome



you will build a furnace out
of burnt

hands   eyes trained on point

see straight into your moist

the crutch of having stands now


the knot of meaning   the growth
of what feeds

the eye feeds the hand   this
not of knowns

that wraps stone wraps bone   this
naught of wire

whose where is unfound unthought
of till just now