It is to this we clamor,
a nuance lifted above sails,
the pristine wind curtailing flows.
So what it is is what I knows,
a record of the blows I’d taken.
Shaken milk/perpetual stream.
Dreams we have/are.
Had the air soured or had we cringed?
To put an end to the drinking binge,
you championed the hurt we swallowed.
allegiance to the ropes.
Here I gag on the myriad hopes of a generation.
Here I nervously reserve my spoiling brain.
A taste of rain for mourning.
Sputter we this fragment of a song.
Long run vex. We bound in text,
coming up for agony/sighing at random
and fixed in splintered seeing.
The saddest part
is that it never stops raining,
and the rain brings no promise or purpose,
only gray shadows that thrust
thin needles into your chest.
A cold conundrum of a morning
rests on the fields, yielding
its weeping truth
to whomever is brazen enough
to demand it. I’ve relinquished
my hand in the matter.
In return, I receive a smattering
of platitudes haphazardly arranged
upon a cracked porcelain platter.
Who can flourish under these conditions?
Apparitions arise like cries from the horizon
and sulk in the damp, despairing clouds.
I move among them unnoticed,
unsubstantiated, my nerve
negated by nervousness,
my discernment dislocated.
Finally, the future is canceled.
Concealed beneath this too dry soil
is one of several spectators to this panic.
Well now, there’s something to sneeze at.
Lick the dust from my bones,
O specter of crass commercialism.
Old truisms don’t sustain us,
it’s the other way around,
as in age feeds on youth.
Dazed to extremity
in this wasteland of jargon,
let’s at least misrepresent ourselves
with panache. Smash post-cultural malaise
with a smile. Meanwhile, my inner vision
is eating itself out of boredom.
The kingdom of heaven’s been rebuked.
Shifting the several,
mimics dull and duty.
Aggregate beauty fetishized in tow.
Apologetic apostrophes in a row
beside the raw image.
Isn’t that neat or niceness or negation?
Ease up on the exaltation, champ.
Stamp the sequence
with a sense of boundary, foreclosure.
Up next composure
clicks into gear,
to steer all meaning
toward an ever deepening fade.
What does the light here
taste like? Sweat, inner turmoil,
wet rocks and bone. Nightly,
I pull the voices of dead poets
from this ashes this light leaves.
I arrange these voices
in a cacophonous cluster,
plug my ears with wet sponges,
and turn whatever words
that manage to break through
into lovely little lullabies, which
don’t taste like the light.
I don’t dictate like a didact,
that’s my own upending.
Disenchantment fractures, quells friction.
This isn’t what my addiction stipulates.
Describe comatose fragmentary fails
but correct likening. In sweeps,
in slander, so what slivers.
My oh my freak arabesque.
Slow rumination, I shoulder esoteric,
core profusion and disrupt the now.
The laughingstock or transitory conflagration.
Come up well, solely drip. Lastly, closure.
I can think of nothing
that would please me more.
Rains over the square, the stores
with cracked windows and nothing to sell.
Something is amiss. I tread
this wicked length of street
with hand in pocket,
worrying about the good old days.
It all goes down… Down poorly-lit backroads,
barely paved, shaved atria, slivered mouths.
And then it comes back up
like so much half-digested food.
A new mood is in session,
a kind of regression that intends
to overstay its welcome and leave
all kinds of clutter in its wake.
New headaches and unfinished stanzas,
luminous tumors of regret.
Like a rumor, the moon slips
slyly into view, and I exhale,
gray vapor unspooling
from my brittle lips.