Category: Freeverse Poems

conceptualizations flower-forming on
the warping surface of my eyes
and sliding down into
the recesses of my
ideologies

new
patterns
moving in my mouth
run by to make
close-up transparencies
fracture into translucence
from a distance
like wax-paper dogs
crossing my vision
one by
one

and so my
arms move like
in a dream of honey
in a pattern of unfathomable waste

Do not undress to fear or doubt my love,
her         whisper in       your ear.
that leaves your will to leave the house undone
You have shown her form to me, my love
you have        let her in
and turned me to an angel of my own
until the coffer rings for you, my love,
i will keep disfathoming
alone and forever
because

memory                                is                           a funny thing
that comes                          abrupt                    a strange thing
to me                            without                     a warning
suddenly    sort of            carving           me     up in smoke

Memory that comes to me suddenly
sort of is abrupt, without carving me.
A funny thing,
a strange thing,
a warning,
up in smoke.

Memory is a funny thing
that comes abrupt, a strange thing to
me. Without a warning,
sort of carving me up in smoke.

in the middle                 of the night
of the memory             a piece severed
a thing little              filled with fright
a sort-of-me            is tethered
that picks between
her ribcage
and her hip

picture a language where
every  l e t t e r
represents one single
separate
sy lla ble.

and each letter could be
combined
with every other letter
to form a new symbol
so that the
total number
of symbols
was the number of letters
times itself.

and the symbols stood for
the two syllables
comprising them
being spoken
at once.
so that instead of just
writing a
word
you could write
two words
at once.

words within words
telling tone
and underlying intent
and pronunciation
and nuance
and all thought
becomes
clear
in the page.

harder to write         easier to express
harder to learn         easier to want
easier to lie              easier to tell the truth

harder to tell the difference
harder to care

and would there be
subtext
even to this?
would
something
lurk
deeper
a third level
down?

moving in those
perfect words
like the
vibrations
your throat
makes
without your
permission

tight wavering
string
septet of
heavy
    teeth scraping
construction sounds

under tones
like
    something
    wrong
like the
wail 
of
    someone
    in agony

we stand
bathed
in a
    fear response
and
    do not
    move
at all

oh spider giant, oh hourglass
she, bearing herself, spits the sweat of her back
over her surroundings
like some cloudy, even plateglass

her hieroglyph back arched
her great woven skin
full of moving herselves
blows open and they, exploding out
expand her
like providence from God

and the little not-god
has her sliver legs
destroyed
by some vast volume of thumb
as if God
left only providence behind

would that i were
some brocade pattern sea of leaves
to be swept in a line from
orange to dead brown

for though the dark and mottled
would spin in great number
and blot the screaming lines of sun
i would see once and for all

what mass of me
could catch fire

and come winter
myself would spiral
on the swaths of white
and looking black against it
be nice to see

but for my part
i will try my spark
on my death hoping
God is there
to keep me from orange