rank in box of want

the machinery has glottilitis
the machinery cannot spell its name
the machinery reasons, “can this be
                 what the machinery wants?”
the machinery is want is rank is box is rank-in-box-of-want
the machinery is not possibility
                 is not about to become impossible on its own
the machinery has glottilitis
                 is not about to become impossible on its own

this poem is feel

this poem is feel
it goes round the absolute and comes out
mud
this
poem is
feel       it is naught & unknot at the same time
              it is heavy & feline under the same tree
              it is less & less the same lie       this poem is feel

the catch of the wind

where the shoots of spring will
bear stone &
          river      we will forget who to forget
          this dance of an egret will
          watch over my night my wick of night

the catch of wind snaps us as
being snow
          becoming the field of yellowed snow
          becoming what yellow used
          to be as snow      when we talk of

strangeness, the glue and
haste – when
          we arrive as trees as brothers & sisters
          the glue when the looks are blue & the boys
          and girls sit around the tunnel, adrift –

In the simple dumplings of war
the gravy
          settles for groove, the master tells
          who what when & we play the peace toon,
          platoons are dispatched to calm nerves, dis

member from that      play
the peace
          toon, these simple simple dumplings
          of war – we will forget who to forget when
          we talk of strangeness, the glue and haste –

an unspeaking door

i.
I have no truck with the unspeaking door      no truck
with pain

that loves the king’s rattle      no truck with eyes that
pluck nether

shades      no truck with luminescence or gore or the
passing field

where seed is ditched where the pitch of a tired crow
will shriek –


i+1.
Each seat of wear
         turns the bread of summer chrome
         it is

Level it is bound
         to tear    the sound of ease is drowned
         it is

drip a dry song

you hear the warcry and sing a lullaby – here
take the soot of

my poem and ash away your tears      you
sup the daily

grind of your corefathers and drip a dry
song – here bake

the earn of my poem and wash down your
fears      you start..

Poet as heart

To have heart is to be fearful of the familiar
to befriend

the outlier      each lie lies closer than the
shrinkiest

of distances that fond the heart      the poet
as heart –


I can brave the torrent of masked poems but
where will

the sun breathe? I can read about the how &
the big how but

who will the stone ask? I can be the pliant
bull but I won’t


the hedgehogs are in want, day
spreads its

eagle wings with disdain      it has
no need –

the full stroke of sun strikes you
as it hovers

so close to your eyes your knees
buckle –