Toward the drought stayed as
the man sidestepped the shallow thin.
The man was dry with no water;
the night was light that sent him chill.
I shall be found, or else I am to
listen to this man, a man worth a listen
to. He who walks by without moving
in his hand a lost little velcro shoe.
For Hunter S. Thompson's birthday, his wonderfully wise letter of life-advice at age twenty.
Inches over the lake
the ballerina heron waves its prize,
a filleted curtsy, my darling amputee.
Once they had extinguished all the lights
They forgot to keep their abode a bribe,
Ushering in the night’s lore of the outside
Before giving whatever mice might scurry,
They forgot to jingle and latch the way,
Advising and declining the need for hurry
From lights lit and vents gone exasperated;
From the sociable residence from nearby:
Never beyond dusk when they stayed–
You promised me they forgot–never.
Unlike you I was not looking for some time for the fate of tomorrow for my speech, and for my own—
but I now feel it.
There in these numbered alleys in the cities in lust it is:
There in again in the phenomenon of what lies ahead it is;
There not in the moment unbeknownst of Life;
It is there in and out to be as if you planted it beside a loose-knit garden of prose
and said, Here, I know if I surround you with great dreams
you are bound to stay a long while;
There in the path of the vulture of the dateless verse it is;
There in the isolation–in Hawaii–in admiration of the surf it is;
But of course!, even as versatile as it is–the thin traces,
the hints of Rhodesian dander, the whisked
warm scents of salt, the brisk walks through
windows of large bay strung homes, the brothel-y filed henchmen–
It is with us, I, to fall to quartet, calibrating there in.
It is Here.
René Magritte ~ “The Portrait”, 1935
I have frail wrists. And
when I close my eyes
I see digital cotton fields.
You wear your thimble
and thumb through the thicket
of my manmade mangrove.
Its indefinite ventilation
takes some getting acclimated,
but you’ve made possible.
To the surface you hurry,
growing smaller in age. Hardly
able to stand insinuates drift.
The stream runs down.
Bringing bits of poetry and with
solace we halt, open and drink.
Wherever we were before
not mattering, the over-spoil
competes in Olympic precedent.
This all mind you in one swift
vacant gale. If there been delay,
the stretch would have kept.
And with its later death, an
old chaperone might vanquish.
A heroic end to our segment.
Used wine led my chamber
to a channel
where we’d see no brine delicacies
and our lamellae run dry.
cutting the Earth and its awful fixation
to keep our colony to be when he were erstwhile,
on one leg
and an abnormal organ: pumping, contacting.
If there were a bitter chill in the air
I wouldn’t know; I, cameo,
wade easily distinguished across aprons
in absolute wonderment of
my owed maneuver.
When I breathe
somewhere a coniferous
takes great relief.
dew claws onto
my every waking.
Us two we
are without internal
change, a Massif.