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worksheets

draftcerpts

*

The throat of the wall holds

(fire of broken faucets) yea-when

tribal chants / gauge haven / oblique

stereosoph / sphere / thread / put a blindfold

on that handkerchief / stones riding a veil

across oceanfloors / while prodigies wrap

their mothers in clothelines (bird-tassels,

ambivalent oblong abdullahs)—

(title: Why I Am Such a Laughingstock)

confessions no one bothers to lipsync

anymore— / highwire execution of baggies

kill them baggies the crowd screams

watertower girders, magicmarker resin (sap)

it seeps from the stem of ash / nozzle

tracks seaweed / over-excited by fright wigs

first in our plus pale list / melting

I became / a tampon with no teeth / 

/
*
[title]

installed amid the kitchen

I cannot move from off
this coaster or stains from
babylon's measure will sink
the cup but if those distant
peaks would only remove
their turbans at once to show
how serene it is beneath
that predatory whiteness 
but is it ever as calm up there
as the mask I wear the mask

whose eyeholes or mouth
tend to scepter and sulk
like a sopped up elephant
so perhaps the moon's
sieve left those pockmarks on
the sea or else this is merely
more lackwork for amputated
jesters to scoff at don't ask
the mask split to the core
or the mask that inflicts
nothing on the face that
it has not already suffered
the daily ordeals the meals
amid the kitchenware stands
the muse that loves to leer
as I swivel my boffo butt
down in a shoeshine grotto

/// 

a real steal

wow,

only 948 dollars and 50 cents, plus 3.99 for shipping,

this is some bargain:

http://www.amazon.com/gp/offer-listing/1484189515/ref=tmm_other_meta_binding_used_olp_sr?ie=UTF8&condition=used&sr=1-19&qid=1392228653

///

draft of work in progress

DAY-THE-VERGE

for days the ceiling was racing
and the silhouettes clung to seance
the wind champed at their scornful habits
dangling a snowflake over the edge of a mirror

manholes stood on ladders to see
a rocket fail to ignite itself from off a sundial
while a slim coitus of wands held the room current
must I exist in these saliva-tidal breaths

fever chalks the roofs where
I imagine my venom is at home
all the figures tidy in their thimble poses
it's like pricking your finger with lambs

how shall I keep when oceanmere falls
everywhere lying idle or exile I sigh

/
so shall I keep when oceanmere falls
wide shall I hide when oceanmere falls
hail shall I hide /  halt shall I hide
then shall I hide when

///

happy

*
I want to reiterate my thanks to Gary Young and Christopher Buckley, editors

of "One for the Money : The Sentence as a Poetic Form," published by Lynx House Press in 2012,

who contacted me directly for permission to reprint 4 of my poems, and which I was happy to give,

I sent them permission to reprint my poems at no cost, no fee,

and I would have been happy to grant similar no-fee permission to any anthologist—

I would still be happy to grant no-fee free permission to anyone who wanted to reprint my work—

http://www.amazon.com/One-Money-Sentence-Workshop-Anthology/dp/0899241263/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1391024231&sr=1-1&keywords=one+for+the+money

///

drafts of unfinished poems

*

WHO SEES

I know the alphabet of loss is like a man

who sees a woodblock print

each time he looks at a tree

whose yardstick measures all the span

between his gaze and its reality

his books are filled with what he holds

between his gaze and what its leaf forsakes

beside a shrine where waters lapse to pray

his ego may not vacate the years enough

the distance that only the foreswear hears

can I detain the ruins a little with my life

that toad whose aftervintage pages vanish

laden with update escapes my anon descends

flopsteps where I stand sneezing into a crown

/

*

WHY IS THE SKY BLUE?

Maybe it's the blueprints

Which the sky must use

To build another house

To move into since

It must leave from here,

Leave its first home here

For a second residence

Without parents,

Because parents fall

With the sunset each day,

They abandon us all

Again and again to

Night, or some bright new

Domicile.  We cannot stay.

///

draft of unfinished poem

*

I believe I existed

as the blink of no one's eye

I woke unknown my face

familiarized only by sunglasses

by all the sun allows to follow me

like the shadow I am

the blink of no one's eye held me

for a mote moment

orchard articulate

rose wise

my eyelids were

carrion wafers

I was the blink of no one's eye

delighted to be the blink

of no one's eye under

so many eyelids or garage doors

pleistocene ferns burst from oiltruck vents as

I pull my old blood over me

and enter
the blink of no one's eye

///