Tuesday, April 2, 2013



What used to rhyme
now requires two times the voltage
to discern homeless from
circumstantial pomp.

I make up secrets
as I go along, the masterpiece
results from street-smart
answers to a yield sign.

Everyone theorizes to be best
of her convection oven,
ample yield perspiring
naivete in the way

that wine's distributed
through bloodlines belonging
to the culprit chanting "Pater Noster"
to the tune of "Clementine."

Poison the Poisson

Sick bay or not,
the hemisphere becomes
one big precinct
of boiled numbers.

Who eradicates the open
blasphemy before
perception coats
these premises of depth.

A seasoning endures
adjacent to inflexible
experience, one sugar
or two, the breast stroke

and a soaking
in new brine to soften
blithering incipient
examination of the sequences.



You invent my overtime
in sleep, I weave storied
threads without inspecting
color, texture, viability

of tenure earned
and set aside.
My soul retrieves
itself uncut

This is no division problem.
We seem lifelong
devotion to shared lines,
spanning youth's

impregnable overt
repeal of history.
I warm your breathed
devotion to eternity.

No comments:

Post a Comment