an east wind

an east wind

through the leaves lisps


but it is


botflies suicide

against the windowpanes.


is the word they

use when they

must decide who

will feed the sea,

and who will feed

the crew. there is

nothing to do, and

nothing to be done

phone poems 2k14

we convene like corvids

to carrion, like two planes

of a triangle the third being

distance which tends inevitable

to nil. under telling clouds,

an omen sky, above silent

bedrock. it is a matter of

trajectory and time, of

feasting and descent

you can tell im a serious poet now because I’ve stopped tagging my pieces “bad poem” “doggerel” and “*farts*”

phone poems 2k14

weary of wary,

inclined to the reckless,

veins awake and

fever thrives. etched

with thorn-lines and

wearing cobwebs

like a diadem. expectant

of the plunge back to

wherever home is newly


phone poems 2k14

there is a wistful city

whose borders are today

and the day we meet again,

not real in the strict sense nor

beholden to the strict senses,

which five can be imagined to

constitute a pentagram within

which the quotidian is bounded;

this is outlying, beyond geography.

two inhabitants or many with

two faces wend twilit streets

and linger beneath arches

commemorating shared victories,

projected, refracted, doubled,

scrawl missives of urgent import

across unreal walls. where else

could one dwell who is unattached

to the singular world? who lacks

a living context? the city falls

to ruin with the passing of days

and when it is desert we

will be nomads and together

"I love"

is a poem

phone poems 2k14

the altar my

suddenly ancient face-

I remember her

my grandmother

at the moment she

could not remember

me I could have

been anyone and

she was afraid

of the man who

stopped to kiss

her on the cheek

and o god this

was holy, this is

how I abruptly

knew god

it was in the furrows

of my face as I

saw my grandmother

not know me. don’t

matter that I don’t believe

I could have

killed him between

my hands

phone poems 2k14

i want

to be somewhere

where nothing happens.

i have lost the knack

of prayer, and so

am uncertain how

to deliver my wants

to the world. should

i give it to the

subtle motives beneath

the lake? feed it

to the earth and

wait for urgent spring?

or do I put breath to

ember and sign

my need in smoke

to vex heaven.

phone poems 2k14

did we mar

the summoning circle

with our careless dance?

like the first plays: chortling

panpipes and the dirge.

the audacity of our sooty

fingers to draw such shapes.

chalkdust lingering in the air,

fouling our hungry lungs. choiceless

with cupidity and drunk on

the clatter of our boots. in

media, resplendent. in stillness

worried. clevering about

with absent stride strewing candles

starting fires and decorating

the floor with glass

"some words/ bedevil me"

against the remit of skin

(exclusion) works the

needle. i am revealed

pervious and mutable.

ink and iron keening

to the surface, called. 

works are translated

upon me. a penitent’s

sunburn, alien metals

mingled. there’s glory

in the marring, in rendering

my history explicit, exterior,

though i will be put to question

for the choice of it. why

this and not another? i

chose, and carry it.