Jan.1
They call it circulation;
this breathing. They
just forget that
circles are
zeros.
These patterns
mean nothing. Even
existence is gasping and
screaming in the dark.
Spilled absence and
lung-distilled air;
both,
heavy.
Helios and Chronos
both kept on the calendar;
unaware
of the other. Flybys
measure days, count years;
toils and harvest are
the sum of a man.
On the third rise in June when
the summer sun begins
its rotting hobby,
North America tells this sun
to celebrate how many
rings Saturn has
acquired.
One band
and two bands
and now three. This
is the value of a man.
How long he can
hold his breath
until the father
opens his
eyes.
Jan.2
Marbles t o s s e d
from m a r b l e
co u n t e r s
Peb bles
f a ll
fr om
e a rs .
Logique: « J’ai rais on de sentir
to come home
is to lose
motive. »
Intuition: « J’ai be soin d’Ex pander
t he se n se s . »
When
lilies petal
do you glue
t h e s h r a p n e l
back onto
the bulb ?
Bold people
« fleurer à la chance
of dis in tegrat i on . »
Masterwork;
f o r mu la f o r
perfect dissociation.
A new world, A new
color
Zenith opposes
the path we
take
to our core.
And our earth,
small orb,
a child’s toy
rests in the
hands
of whomever
didn’t drop
i
t
.
Jan.3
My heart is
frozen again. It’s
too scared to go
forward. And I’m
tripping on its strings;
violin wires, in the key of
high e. It’s petrified permafrost,
drifting along open sea.
A shrill ship bow,
stern and true,
scrapes off more
music than it
can chew. Now
sink. There, that
feels good, doesn’t it?
To think, you thought
this voyage would
be simple, and
your vessel
wouldn’t
break.
Icebergs are
grand gestures
of love; not your usual
dowry, but it’s me.
And, you say
we’re a we.
So the least you
could do is learn to
sing on key. Perhaps,
the resonance will
shake just right.
And we’ll wear
beautiful
rings.
Jan.4
Bubble-born
Ballooned-brain
Snow-flake
Clean, transparent
Charred, awake
Meteor-shower (not made for wishing)
Blood-bath (not made for fishing)
Sun-soaked
Pop-trash
Wasting time,
Stayin’ alive
Betty Crocker croaked
You shouldn’t smoke
Right to live
Right to die
Silly, we all know how to lie
I can’t help but feel
somebody’s watching
Tie it together for me, would ya?
In a pretty bow? I
don’t know how to grow, I
don’t know where to go
from here. I was never
punctual. So, spare me
the lecture. I want to cry
when I need to cry.
I need to run
when I want
to run.
So stop
trying to
suck me dry.
I’m dripping, and
I won’t apologize for
the passion I lost on your
floor. Because I’m a bubble-born
Snow-flake, too good for you, too
good-for-nothing. But, this is a new
year. There’s always a new generation
for you to fear. I’ll keep it accurate,
and focus on truth. I’ll get off the
soap-box, if you do too.
Jan.5
I can still feel still feel
these words these words
breadcrumbed lovers in youth in youth
I would steal away away
sipping echinacea under snow under snow
I harvest mud mud
clinging boots boots
in the dozing sunlight sunlight
a shier blue than my spirit my spirit
what narcissus would give his own give his own
mirroring passion is easier is easier
than creating it from the thin winter air winter air
is still in my lungs in my lungs
wherein lies my tie my tie
to my core my core
idyllic light dustings and deep freezes deep freezes
February was an icebox left open left open
it whistles my name my name
that I almost forgot almost forgot
Jan.6
Lip Drip, Spill Mind’s Cup
We Overflow with the Day
Leap into Cocoon
Jan.7
Figures of black
running from the mirror
that is a lake,
under moongaze.
Bow to her, offer no fear,
feed the earth your tremble; your shake.
Don’t get near
her milky haze.
You’ll be lost in hair.
Her braids are no road; it’s unclear
how one makes it back
through the mind’s maze.
They call her Eau Claire,
her children, her deer.
The ink stains; figures of black.
