tango nuevo

'Tyrants always want a language and literature that is easily understood'
                                Theodor Haecker (1889-1945)

                 hold up a naked hand

in its palm    spotlit    a tight dance   

the orquesta tipica strikes an archetypal beat

known colours tugged by the whirl

   we glory in it              dip      breath clasped      blood frill

as he performs a sacada shift of sure feet

but the legato returns

no subplot steals from his tinsel eyes

music hung like a familiar wreath


we are spun


                 toes in shit


only the wallflowers have lucid stares




an anatomy of birds

You found it in the humus

of emergent things, it's

feather skull one hundredth

of its skyborne weight, grey


treasure gone, keel clung to

its breast no longer obliged

to guide and pitch, your fingers,

still with their flesh, decadent


against this picked white, your

density fondling its hollowness,

the cavities that once dissected

light, one feather fixed to its


ladder spine, Jurassic toes coiled

to their fate, your hand defies the

giant's requisite to crush, this fragile

survey of the possibility of flight.





'while your lust is smiling and your reason weeping...'

eyes inhaled like an opiate

I imbibe the rough ephemera of possibility's flame

humanity in a wink         dark brow         a moment's grace

ill-fated by a millennia of tales

loose tongues menace our ocular dialect


I would touch your hand across the schism

                                  of this foreign place

apples or wheat            our worlds split on the taxonomy of illicit fruit

but not its fate

we will not live   a thousand myths

I kiss an appetite for your mouth


                                                          as faith gapes




'someone among us will sing tonight'
                        Tom Joyce, Traversing the Storm



there are waves and there are waves
all at sea


run your finger round the rim
it is the emptiness that sings


when it happens
standing beside you
will be your first memory


Principium individuatioris:
toss me over
let me drown in a Kantian glimpse


wind appellation:
which bears the name of the purest song
borne by it?


I have seen the sky
and though it belongs to birds and things of whim
I know the love of astronauts


tempest / tempête / tempus

time rages through the confused throng
there's a book to be drowned
if vengeance is to be waylaid


struck by lightning
her body tenses
into the bow of a harp


despite rapid movement
it always hailed on the philosopher's hat


don't make me choose between
the eye and the roar
of storm


we are the people we've been waiting for

poet's biography ->