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You are a sailor without a sea or star-chart
Walking toward angles and stopping when prompted.

– Nicotine only makes you grumpy –

Don’t feed the bears.
Black eyes are warnings
Of themselves, but climbing
Your length, crosswise,
You’ll forget like you forgot
That night she embraced you
Then pulled out your tongue
As an example to the hunter.

No sense, talking, anyway.

Maybe it is a good idea, mapping the stars.
Connect the dots to the tune of significance
If only to account for the whereabouts
Of the bear and the hunter.

The Faded Red Hat

The faded red hat
Is lined with sentiment
That isn’t yours. So, to you,
The faded red hat

Is dirty. Somewhere an old man
Lost again. He won’t find his
Lucky hat on the brass hook
Near the laundry room door.

A loose dog tears through town.
A crisp paper bag soggys its bottom.
A dandelion grows in mowed grass.
It’s the first day of April.

After The Lodger Had Passed

I found a blunt, old, beaten sword
On the pathless side of a low stone wall,
And used it to pound my river into an ocean.
Then drank from my ocean down to its skin.

I ground the skin into a silky blue powder
That I carried with me in a sack,
Swinging from the point of my blunt old sword,
To the mountains at the edge of the valley

Where I fanned the foothills with sheer blue hue
So it matched that evening’s twilight seamlessly.
I collected the scene, folded in thirds,
and sent it into space in an envelope.

The add said wait six to eight weeks
To receive my X-ray specs.

Sonnet

Here, have a pull from this, said lyre to lungs
in some middle english verse.
Enough out of reach it rolled from her tongue
that slowing held its sweetness.

And they shared an erotic memory.
Breathed down on their lovers
the scent of onions and old wives, oddly,
taste was no business of theirs.

But he, tossing a gust through melody,
half like a sad voyeur,
half like a Daddy Warbucks parody,
exhaled sick self valor.

The music ended on a breath,
All folks take their own run at death.

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Love, we’ve tracked perfection
All these ages, all lost
On trails of evidence
Trampled from grass to paved
Under less purposeful
Feet than our own climbing
Along those winding paths

A climb to living globes
Pressed into the night’s sky
Whose roundness fails up close

Perhaps it is a dream
Allowed only in time
Future and Memory
Where it can exist
Itself pure and polished

Sci-Fi Pantoum

Chworktap left Lalorlong with Simon
While seeking the answer to the primal question
(Why are we created only to suffer and die?)
To live as immortal space wanderers.

While seeking the answer to the primal question
Simon and Chworktap tumbled into love,
To live as immortal space wanderers,
Against the improbable odds of the universe.

Simon and Chworktap tumbled into love
With preserved consciousnesses and unnatural long lives
Against the improbable odds of the universe.
A lady robot and a human man

With preserved consciousnesses and unnatural long lives.
They were adrift in space and the space between
A lady robot and a human man.
O’ longevity! Inadequate measure of fulfillment!

They were adrift in space and the space between
Deep thought and its conclusion.
O’ longevity! Inadequate measure of fulfillment!
Consider the Universe! Filled with emptiness.

Deep thought and its conclusion!
The primal question is an empty question.
Consider the Universe – filled with emptiness –
Emptiness has been decided on.

The primal question is an empty question
Still highly considered, though emptiness is not.
Emptiness had been decided on.
For more of the same basic experience,

Still highly considered, though emptiness is not,
Chworktap and Simon bypassed emptiness.
For more of the same basic experience.
Any punctuality at the edges of space is such a lust.

Chworktap and Simon bypassed emptiness
Like so much water in a dirty tub.
Any punctuality at the edges of space is such a lust
That unnatural long lives forsake empty space.

Like so much water in a dirty tub
Emptiness is not non-reality.
That unnatural long lives forsake empty space
So what was known shall always be.

Emptiness is not non-reality.
Chworktap left Lalorlong with Simon
So what was known shall always be.
Why are we born only to suffer and die.

Eclogue

Partially, your truth spoke. They’ve nearly carried it all away.

You and they.

Those winded cedars rose to the sun on boulders.

How could they be louder? Buried feet may not be winged.

 

O’ Lover! it ran downward, its carving grew.

I stole it from you, for you! The scent!

I’ve begged it wash me from you. Anoint

Surfeits of evil.

 

Ghosts! Shepherd, listen, “A wish is induced

by a sudden change in the wind’s decay. Shall we

to the water’s edge?” Go then, bathe in what’s left.

As If

In the sight of paying passengers crews stomp dusty work days

into boot-prints on not yet hung brass ceiling tiles. Passengers gawk

at the business of the business of the illusion of luxury travel.  

 

As if the passengers pacing the marble tiles in King Street Station

hadn’t purchased their tickets on the backs of cold transit mornings

and yet un-noticed fuck-ups, as if their tickets made them new,

 

they gawk. As if they don’t expect to return to see those same

        boot-prints

hung as if some long gone passengers climbed the polished marble

and walked upside-down among the pounded-brass-lilies.