It thinks

IN PREPARATION

   a long fronting bow

   follows the gaze of 

   thousands

         "Bland" 

                       it thinks
         "after so much tossing"

   to the 

   floor

FOR THE SPLINTER

To One Muse:

there are so much of you
please tell me which
        to write to

            Twandelefera . . . ?

 there you have it.

            Twandelefera, for you it all 

happens.      it all changes.

            for your joyous grace
           stagnation borns itself
               offers you opportunity
            that you may unclamp 

                your shell

                and dip your sweet

             little toe 

                  upon the surface 

               of lukewarm swamp 

                            waters. 

           gush, 

               oh new sprite one. 

                                       splash. 

Hypocrisy Sonnet

To a magpie, gorging upon naked table; 
and to a deerfly, speeding with greedy zoom; 

What fine feast of left-outs and day-olds 

has entreated your beating wings and imbued 

your maneuvers with shards and unstable 

thwarts at far fewer marks than our 

bleeding bards can consume? 

I cannot see which the wind may pull, 

but I can tell you I see what you do.
Magpie and Deerfly, you are both on my list 

of things to rebel, revolt and resist 

against, and again! you bite at my neck 

and you rape of my hand.
If this violence persists, I'll drop pen and grab sand.
I'll throw dirt-balls at you and your pestilent crew
and make off with the crumbs that you scammed. 

(w/ Ian Herman)

With thousand-armed white

    handed reach, 

Odin, reach

    for that word! 

Hang for the Nine

the eye's worth!

Grip on your gut 

           and there,  

Flames countenance

-- that graces vision -- 

    rests. 

(w/ Cicada Musselman)

and so, why poetry

doesn't want to fit

in the crossed ankle mindstream

screaming hemline scare; 

or the botanized categories

  of lobed or ovate leaf, 

  or fuzzy or bared stem; 

but fits in the sting

  on the lip

  of this glass, 

and in this loud swing

across a crowded

dance-floor,

and this objection, like glue

   is SERIOUSLY

imbibed, 

    wrought, 

        brought to saturation

     is keyhole

     is flexible

     is a raspberry bush

       about to fruit     

?

In the hammock

In the hammock, 

there is air traffic

and the scenery uncoils

into mellow company

from its postured set

and the old time 

plastic sickness

only croons.

The Bucket

I'm back at the fucking well again. 

The cobblestones on this maiden's song

are plenty mossy, and the water just as sweet

but there, this bird over my shoulder 

incessantly calls my tilt on its axis on its

crooked behavior 

and my one good foot stubs up against the slick green

and the wells forth ridge guts into my corpse

like a jut in my waistline 

and the water runs 

up the nose bridge and its shrillness blinds

the tear while ice song deafens. 

So now what the fuck is in my bucket?