Less Than Cover
Registered, numbered, accountable,
and at all times
Charades can not be more directive;
a paper trail,
a tidy, tiny end to each tale.
remembered, tampered, tethered
in tandem with loose feathers -
to be so
charged, dismissed as less than cover.
by permafrost and broken waterpipes.
devoid of geese.
A mannered manifold of changes.
Flashlights that do not work,
candles that do not burn.
Proceeds into slush funds,
no grandeur grandly attested to.
assumed as much as anyone.
A last rite?
But, then, why not?
A thousand miles
A cracked seashell
lets in an ocean's roar.
I who was
once not close
am now hostage
to stigmata of messages and mementoes.
I am a struggle
a posture freed of significance.
Levelling with Whomever
starting in again,
a blah, then, a blast,
then, Lordy me, I'm wrung out,
fatigued, even fed up
Days have not changed,
the hours remain.
Anything can accelerate,
and who can't imagine
there's always somebody, somewhere, writing down your name.
No matter the
different ways of speaking,
it's still complaining about not being,
not being heard,
indeed, not counting.
The trivial looms,
a backroom chatter interposes.
in a drafty room,
syrup and almonds,
diamond bracelets and cheddar
confound the obvious,
signs signifying oblivion.
Ketchup with eggs,
marmalade and toast
and foreign heroes
on the morning talk shows
and an appropriate afternoon
followed by a slight loosening of covert controls,
and, finally, by an evening skewed towards end.
The View from Anywhere
Bladder campion, wild pink, sweet pea,
in a wilderness
of the unnamed,
disregarded among chipped stones, diatom fossils,
reaches uncatalogued, dismissive gestures
in the receding railroad tracks,
cross ties indistinguishable,
but thankful for vetch intertwined with a
a huge sky's descent into an aphid's
a beetled world
viewed through heads of tasselled grass,
that quietness between cricket calls
that the small enlarges.
Minotaurs primp at a river's edge,
congratulatory features favor the
Among crushed turtle shells
urge after urge,
charges of mayhem,
caged panthers pacing back and forth,
narration in a cluster of bones,
a windy and autumnal omen from distant
the ongoing separation of this from that,
beside a surfeit of dross,
of make belief,
of shadows and their shadowy interplay,
the interchangeable grasshoppers' clickety-clicks.
>From What Is Left
Straight talk or random dispersal,
which, unleashed, swish, swish
the darkening purple grasses.
He lingers on that last phrase,
datum from his life,
nor a shepherd's return, a cougar's retreat.
lights crowd into the distance,
his own self dissipating in the late summer
lamb's-quarters growing out of turned over earth,
and among rotting joists piles of masonery.
He will, will not, will
dust a gold-plated ikon,
stare down a turbulent pale vortex,
consider one self-portrait after another.
What is to be believed -
traces of colored pigments,
revelatory images of one's self?
at the computer, listening to Satie's gnoissienne No. 5.
He is drinking
He is sad.
He does not know why.
His wife inquires as to
He does not know what to say in reply.
She says, he is in
a brown mood.
Enough of portrayal, of the revelatory,
of must and
should and ought, cog within cog.
Now, it is a summer's evening,
sun at the edge of the
shadows reaching out,
a thinning to the declining light,
to be reconciled,
not even remembered
after a few more such evenings,
such edges to the sky,
such shadows as there may be lying in transit,
swallow's precipitous, maybe, final lengthy descent.