v word ekes

i - the most beauteous of rots
           clasps the yellow roots of sun
      
ii -  in the absence of song, should the 
	   syllables falter, there is dirge

iii - in the absence of humor, fear 
           follicles thread a dearness 

iv - not since morning sought knife 
           did the word begin to cut water

v - what the grasp of heaven misses
           earth catches as wish & loam -

What remains

I could dust off the rain’s remains but
        there is just too much that resounds
        I could feel the knotted night and

Seep it of its wounds but there is just 
        too much that reminds I could trip
        the river’s run as it feels its way

Over rock but there is just too much rock
        Somehow song goes away just when
        you want it to sing overwhelmed by

All that remains -

algorithmically impune

Which fragment of geometry is
        soil and which is property?
        Do you have enough plastic
        to wrap it all up?  Do you

Have enough rubber to bounce off
       your impunities, enough metal to
       drill them further into the abysses
       you have dug through millennia?

Whose fire do you use to burn
         down houses? “we don’t really
         have to go down there anymore, 
         we have a button for that..” 

Does your shrapnel seek little 
         Zaynab’s permission before
         entering her heartchamber? “we
         now have algorithms for that..”

the million yous

there are a million yous maybe
         two give or take a half mil
         and there are as many loves

furious selves as many others &
         then a billion or six more
         give or take a half bil & then

there is capital the ladder of poems
         one at the top calling others
         non what about the billion

yous loves selves poems give or
         take a half bil no you say 
         that won’t do thkuverymch-

the moss of beginnings

i.
at the edge of some 
            beginning lies the humanoid lacking requi-
            site evolutionary cogs
            & bits to fully process daytime
            (it’s blinding but so is karma)
            it blushes & 
                 retires -

ii.
where water goes to quench its thirst, there
            it is that the
            bumblebees bumble, where herons and 
            heroines speak sky & 
            the courage of humans falters, mixes with
            the rust of 
            trees, the moss of beginnings & the roots
            of poems past & 
                    here -

iii.
it would have been a new poem
            had it not been for the oldness
            of knives, the oddity of
            pale, the sunken brevity of the
            odd word, the fondness of 
            being strange &
                      still -