Chalk

Blaring chambers of
chalky waves of
balmy cues of
blatancy

enter a delay of
wavering wills of
calming leers of
urgency.

Desk Drawer

A reputation above all others

kept frankly in the envelope

within the desk drawer

beneath bills,

catalogs
and letters

Becomes an irreliable
source of conflict

Wishes

We often toss them into the water as we linger on edges of fountains for too long. We drown them and expect they will sprout into something more than what is worth tossing away. There, they choke as we peer down. Strange we never reach in and scrape them up to buy cake or some means to accomplish what we live for. Rather, we turn to Mother's pocket for a hopeful nudge at something to be proud of. Here, we toss in the cake or the means to achieve what we should be living for, in with the other wasted cents and sense. Shortly after, we walk over to buy cake but never the means to begin what we live for.

Words of Michelangelo

Noting intellect, or lack 

of such a notion 

in our humanity, here 

I have chosen to portray

the intellect 

so nearly exchanged 

between God and Adam.

Sleep's Eve

A plump Red,

born from blossoms

and bulging by sun-scorch,

now sags from singed

rusty leaves and slither-hymns

of trees on the Eve of

snow-graves and sleep.

Further

Soon is an aloof.

Further, too, is aloof.

Clutching scales put all

open in dash

in regard.

Beating

of damaged, of

vault

of sole strange;

all through wavers

waiters

weighers.

Aloof is a further

too tolerant.

Greed

i am                                            in my head

shaping my eyes to greed         i drop my breath

and obviously                            i am

not                                             the only one who cannot breathe

completely                                 to save myself

in vain

Confession

An abrupt silence

reached across the windowsill

and flew off

like frightened starlings,

foreboding words

trembling limply in my hand.

--A Found Poem with elements 

from Chaim Potok's In the Beginning

Amputee

Remember that trick
when magicians tear cloths from tables, 
Only startling those crystal cups
and not screaming them to the ground?

It is nothing like that trick
Because doctors severed and tore
after startled questions,
And he no longer stands.

Covet

Beyond evergreen

seams lie starving trances, dulled

Drifting from view, veered

away, awakening, Now

tethering treaded fancies

Clutters

More so than a long wait

or a long jog

or a long day

Those thoughts and memories

cluttering and scribbling 

in my head

wear me out too quickly

and too fully.

A Funeral

Casting ink shadows on walls

is the sun

falling toward its defeat

blazing orange and hysterical.

Tugged by a noose,

it writhes

leaving an ink cast hood behind.

Bellowing down,

drowning now

The sun, assaulted as ever

and writhing like mad

chokes

As the ink-casts bob and dance like porpoises

celebrating a death

Tree-Women

Tree-women
Just there,
there, clasping leaves
stationed
And barricading drops
of broken sky
Only moving
to shiver
Yet to speak
And yet to leave

Otherwise

There are indifferent times of
difference
where I spend my time
But mostly
out of fear
Toward pendings and otherwise.

of edges

summer gusts
gusty charms
i'm at the edge
of edges
glancing at pretty things
and dreaming
hearing simple songs
slurred thoughts
ifs and thoughs
abounding

Plumed

Plumed

from riches and trinkets
barreled a draped smile, hanging
And the bitter sang songs
of the abandoned sweet
That returned, inevitably
Even after tangled flutters
and eye-closing

Consumed

And Concrete

Breath-swallow
To shape my head inside
And butterflies carving,
The concrete way
down below is there
Afraid to drop
there
And butterflies

And the breath in my head
is there
Afraid to drop there
And longer

Exhale,

And my breath carves the concrete

Factor

Besides the fact that
he resides outside of
his mind
He is well aware
of outside minds
factoring

Mason Jar

It feels nice
Pouring my thoughts out like this
Onto the page
Because it's been bottled
Sometimes trickling through my mouth
Not with no regret, sometimes
But the regret always lies in the bottling
And it feels nice
Pouring my thoughts out like this
Onto the page
Because it's been bottled
And the regret always lies in the bottling

Manners

Manners don't matter
after the dust coats your hair
Because why should they, anyway
I only notice because
manners don't matter when
your bones grow longer
And the world sees you,

A vulnerable

But not the pitiful kind
But the kind who is pathetic
Because there is no dust in your hair

And they trail the fragments across the tile
You were going to sweep there, anyway
Because manners don't matter when
you're just going into the world
And they're on their way out.