From ‘Couch to Couch, Never Leaving the House’
providence surrounds my soul
folding it as a mildly flavored
tan dough from western to
eastern corners that have not
previously graced my thought
serenely dry and crusted, the
divine hands roll my essence
with flour, soda powder, grass,
cattle, fast food restaurants,
and eastern red bud.
out of the thick starch tumbles
my past. things that a boy will
cherish as the cell’s sojourn into
old age pushes onward.
companions both casual and
significant rain out of me before
I flow open now, though I
in the way that a hand shaped
brass bowl (as hand shaped as
one can be) sings when firmly
caressed in perfect rhythm, the
ear reaches into the air and
selects the words to draw in that
it has always thirsted for.
no words from sages nor
white lies it was told nightly in
pen and finger slide along further
down the creamy pulp together
as a pair than any white armor
clad cosmonaut or horse
mounted, violet nosed noble.
the ever observing eyeball
follows left to right and top to
bottom as lies form and the cheek
on one side of her face tenses.
From ‘That Which Gets in the Way’
once you get to a certain point down the tunnel
there’s a physical manifestation of your emotion
the spirits knotted a rope around the back
of my eyes
and are pulling them down my spine
the rope constantly gives and takes down
the back of my neck
the pain is missing expected landmarks
how i’ll never get to say goodbye
as they do in fiction.
“there will be no madrid”
i think most of us don’t get to say goodbye, though