after party


infuse the building
gesture the after effect


flickering light

in a long, drawn stairwell,



we sing





i have not decided


the body is my body is your body


weakness of limbs



certain, blueprint,


skull holes

bone, i will find you


at the entrance

to sleep




“right” is relative

to the sheets




dream the taxi’d streets,



canyon height

canyon dawning

lost down here, in the cool






one point

after midnight




exploits the nerve




3am, and all, all

is open



grown up

grown up


At the branch, all

ways draw outward

at a twisted angle


it is not easy





Someone will come

up the road in a truck

to disrupt the black–


is it enough?


one star is more

than you will see




Oh, the tall ancient building

precisely the same


from outside—

the scale within,

a wait




wait long enough,

dreams will breach the wall






the argument is inside—

the question is why.

Plastic stretched across

a wooden frame.


A child version

of an offering—

weeds grow up

through a fever


patterns unfold

square by square,

knit loop

the finger fits through



at this late date,

dawn is too late—





there was a time

for this




Dark water gives light

layers—lives a clouded root,

signal instant of the mudborn

minnow. Laughter in the level



what say,

synapse, of

nothing, a some-break


in the onrush of knowing?





In the velvet fabric

of bone-matters,

lines continue

on the bone


that once infused a lively

love, long word, primal fear

of knowing





desperate to prove the



root, the childhood



nonsense understanding

of trees beneath

the canopy,


of distant conversations





nervine maps along a lost



lost luck

in a clouded root–


Networks continue

to infiltrate.


A map mirrors

cloud ligations.






There are no right

angles beneath the skin.


Reach into the stream—

the current

reorders itself,


engulfs the line.


glass + fragment

glass + fragment


temporary verse, an avenue

look sideways, no one returns a look

dark shapes glide across the glass


possess or interpret the gesture,

only edges are visible

tremor, a sudden thought

of relation


lost in reflex—stand mirror to an eye.



after car drifts past, the carriage

of untelevised moments,

thus accidental,



(the interior

of a window

its own




at times a tree bends or a window directly across hides a world it’s Chinatown a lady’s on the roof hanging laundry it just started to snow tv news reflected on the inside smoke has engulfed the yard or pigeons on a wire in the country they say doves a dog paws a cool place to press the whole body to the earth the glint of memory engulfs the mind, again and again and again

Veils of code

Veils of code

Hint of aftermath—along the route. To claim damage potential as an act. From a safe position, film every action-reaction as a neat package. Best to leave part to the imagination. Best to write loose across a wide page. Precision will come later. The route widens with so many people and people in cars. Routine movements within, and stop, and go. A loaf of bread, espresso. There is nothing to complain about, so sigh. A thin residue on the glass is not bipolar in/of itself. The bird highway baffles as always. One in the front, and a view from the back.

It appears we’ve lost the route; rain in veils. What’s left out in the rain? (It never rains). Without the sky, we’re aimless. Pulse of blood in finger tips. A leaf fell from a full tree in the rain. It never pays to be at the front where the action grows. A stunt to find another route. Let the words trail off the page. Only the birds are certain of their actions. The phone in my pocket breeds code as a desperate stunt to find a new route.




Blurred total,

absent the blind area,

out of reach of the pendula,

the bird arc.


An unseen violence

must be undone to complete

the image,


origin, Ur,

of urge,


reciprocate habit

of looking through and past, but only

a half-look, like a move

through the half open door.


Better to not look on the hour.

Better wait longer, to note changes,

otherwise feel a fool to the primal




Elements are around you—no use

gathering them,

or they overwhelm.


Multiple avenues just out of view

must converge

as all things do,

but the unifier is missing.







Dark matter

Dark matter


Revert to entry: handmade holes

knit together homely hours.


Turn back—repetition

masks there is nothing, no

thing where the spirit apparently



Rounded out,

a shape  —  threaded

feathers, filtered sunlight,

excrement, and sweetgrass.


Constant variable, an entry.


An inevitable unknown.

Fingers unfold, light

formed only. A lie unwinds

in the eye, of lines and texture.

The hard surface of a window.


Directive to move through glass.

Will the body unfold further? Breath-

fog, matter to live on,

maintains the tethers;


the spider’s

web, canopy bird,

garden cataract, crumbs,

film on the table

of spilled coffee,


no explanation given.





Art of Quotation

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Creative Life through Poetry, Philosophy, Art, and Literature