Posted in Poetry on Jan 1st, 1997 No Comments »
Letting drift out my ears
a sieve of time
Letting slip my precious years
a breath of wine
Drawing in vapors of fall
a death of kinds
Drawing on my aged pall
a thread unwinds
Losing time the sun sinks low
a scent of pine
Losing sleep the ice will grow
a taste of chyme
Posted in Poetry on Jan 1st, 1997 No Comments »
Each molecule slows to a blistering cold
I am old,
I am old,
seethes between blue lips
Every bone snaps in the winter’s grips
Little sips,
little sips,
gusts the deaf mute wind
All the stars crash and the nose is pinned
I have sinned,
I have sinned,
cracks the eyes untold
(repeat)
Posted in Poetry on Jan 1st, 1997 No Comments »
We lost our naivity somewhere in those grey plastic bushes,
the ones they use to landscape gardens for the colorblind;
we spend our days, turning over rocks
Here, innocence… Come back, come back…
I promise not to sell you to the bodyless candy-head man
I promise not to flush you down the toilet again
I promise not to take you [...]
Posted in Poetry on Jan 1st, 1997 No Comments »
see this skin that clings so tightly to my flesh?
it is but a disguise that my innards wear to hide their shame.
see this blood that bathes the autumn in blushing?
it is the weapon that my nostrils bear to mark another fall.
see these bones that crackle beneath the surface?
this is the disguise that my soul [...]
Posted in Poetry on Jan 1st, 1997 No Comments »
Direct current under my skin, making my hairs stand up,
Listen as the running oxen bustle endlessly.
Distant calling from the west, making my heart stand still,
Listen after the rain oozes by endlessly.
Don’t cry in the thunderstorm, it only attracts the bolt,
Love atrophy, the ruler of backwards empires.
Dust congeals into mud rivers, it only becomes the [...]
Posted in Poetry on Jan 1st, 1997 No Comments »
Knocking on a stranger’s door was my short walk to suicide,
crying on a desolate curb in a foreign neighborhood.
Brezsny said that nice guys end up slaving away in service
to dreams they don’t believe in.
Writing on a blank screen is my short walk to catharsis,
buying a dream in a case in exchange for your heart.
Sienna [...]
Posted in Poetry on Jan 1st, 1997 No Comments »
These little wiry hairs that grow on my shins
I didn’t want your sweet fruit anyway
Prickle the back of my hand like tiny pins
I didn’t come here to be treated like this
Pierce my exoskeleton, prop it up to dry
I didn’t see your quick giant hands
My many many eyes gazing just beyond the sky
I didn’t ask [...]