Poems

1. Privileged Moment

I'm writing a still life.

At any moment now something will happen to a bowl of fruit.

Words are slowly creeping into the vernacular.

They say that is how it happens.

I wonder who they are, and why I should trust them.

Then you show up uninvited but beautifully dressed.

 

You mention this remarkable image:

Everything cramming into the photograph of blackness,

the bureaucracy of the great unknown under review,

elephants   sucked to their deaths by a magical force.  

I sneeze and the deconstructionist moon is wrong.

Faintly green, rotting because it's been in the sky too long putrefying into an

essence.

We are 2-3 drinks in, and my brain is breaking natural speed limits,

like fast-forwarded footage of a flower blooming.

You are happening from a great distance.

I blink and nothing is happening.

 

 

2. You Be, Or Not, You Ebb

Day
escapes
day
barely
but
eternally
The machines
of  
pleasure
are born
inside
us
like ghosts
and
eventually
wear
us
like shells

 

 

3. Blue House

Her laugh traipses
around blue house,
entering the light hiding behind the cherry armoire
and exploding it into health,
then it chokes-to-death
the grandfather upstairs
watching television
under orders of the grandfather clock.

A theory about defenestration
hatches without wings
from an egg on the kitchen counter.

Peter passes a joint to the dead grandfather.
Does anyone know whose grandfather this is?

Her laugh sleeps tangled in dreams in blue house.

 

 

4. Tryst

Sheer as sex in the ruins of the sublime twenty something:
life's veneer. Not until it begins to peel at the edges
do I realize I am on film. Then I become wary of being remixed,
or that the editors are splicing together all my bad behaviors.

The giant walking creatures appear on the streets.
They are like shadows suspiciously falling at the wrong angles,
or doppelgangers with crooked mustaches.
Chloe and I hurry past the liquor store
and into the woods until we are deep,
the dusk colored like it is creeping out of the past,
and we lie panting on the dead wet leaves,
and listen.

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