Chloris Tongue (Sonnet-esque)

dove’s nimble black worm, dance numb, bask upon
the verdant fiber strings of chloris air,
and droop still like the amaranthus spawn
who sways with time till time declares the end.
i watch you wriggle, rings untwist and spin
like wrinkled fingers stitched, arthritis spun;
tell me, what nymph provides you, Flora tongue,
the speck of thought that placed your life within
the earth’s discorded blend of martyrdom?
your life unsolved? unconscious lives? or i?
am i your fears, your wrath, the feet nearby
that tread the sacred earth that you descend?
tell me, my heart awaits your Flora song;
i hear softly, it flits upon the doves.

the eden of my eye.

fit my consciousness
in condensed sand
bottle, ship, shell.
rock on water like
wet pendulum pawned
by moon vibration
elevated by the lips
of the shore

synthesize the gull
with the starry door
of the sky,
tie string to the tooth
of the tree and watch
them fly back to the black
basket of eternity

i follow bethlehem,
and it leads me there
to the celestial coast
of eden’s beginning and
ever present end.

we onions. (stream of consiousness)

my people want predictable,
want words to remind, not
to perceive, not to sense
the untold sense, not to play
the poet, but the poem worth
forgetting, not collage
of mind, but the white drawl
of a page with a scribble or two,
not to kick the bucket and
spill their pains into
eternity, but to slit the
split second thought: happy,
sad, shit, fuck — stanza
minimal, phrase rehashed,
thought kept mechanical,
fuck iamb, fuck metrical,
americans want










dry layer of onion mind,
not the burn beneath, it’s
too much for the attention
span of the industrialized nose: –so

put me back in the dirt, and
down that oregano glass
if you can only scratch
the surface of i and them.

i dreamt of day today (Sonnet)

dear whiskey, wafting burn, my seraphim
piss: speak, and boil nerve, i am much too ripe
for tip-toe speech that shan’t describe my dream,
for I cannot inhale a vacant pipe. –

i dream too often, and i love it so,
but i was particularly in line
with my most recent dream — i may endow
it as a memory, were i benign.

i dreamt of day — no, not the yellow fly
that’s squashed by day; the bold sensation of
a smile it was — it was a sane reply
to all the earth’s elusive speckled love,
and i awoke a soul, and not a man.

……..Will I awake tomorrow’s soul again?

i the crow hear me croon (Sonnet-esque)

what crisp elixir here exudes the crow
in i, that i, in kind scowl, seize the daze
of nightfall’s tired glow with flashlight mind:
that caws is i, in i, with mind, to croon?
what moon emits the cool miasma now,
that caws is all i croon to scratch the haze
tonight, and ricochet against the wind,
which carries it away unto a muse
that i cannot recall? i reek of want,
warm whiskey, marijuana, michigan,
bad breath (but my words are mouthwash to me),
so i’d assume ’tis caws i wish to need again
a muse like road kill left upon the street
for i to croon till dawn to, then repeat.

On a Flight of Chickadees (Sonnet)

The chickadees in flight: my lees of air,
Bronze feathered mice of mid-September trees;
You rummaged meadows for the last straw hair
Then fled! Born back beyond the winter’s freeze.
Tell me, small sphere whose feathers meditate
Upon the sky’s enticing blue, did you
Awake in Spring to worms atop a plate
Of earth, or did worms peak, thus finding you?
How might you tame this Northern reservoir
of pale snow honed upon disorder’s day?
Is it the lives you lived that know desire,
Or all the lives you bear in life’s delay?
I listen — all my questions fly to rest
Tonight, where answers sleep inside its nest.