observations

he eats peanuts out of his pocket

using his fingers big and bruising

shucking salt nuts like nothing,

like habit.  

Mr. Modica's wake

waking waking one hand

shaking the wax shoulder

of a being once breathing.

Beneath the coffin, a

profusion of flowers

whets noses like

strangled and careful

summer.  

(untitled)

Mothers wringing

hands beneath eaves waiting

and listening to the town

talking low toned and talking cool

            and daughters ducked and abstaining

            from being properly deceptively new.

training

rounds around the gym

for fighter conditioning

placement repeating punch

in switch combinations the

numbered beating repetition

of praying, counting, breathing

reaching to the 1-2 basic

pounding against everything

against the day, against death,

with death and finally

tirelessly, I am free

and I breathe raw

and sink beneath the

buffer between each

part of me. 

ascension

bunches
of grocery
daffodils,
cut loud
and clean,
butcher
destitution
on the empty
counter

deep decline

sliding down
a muddied hill
with heels locked,
with nails scraping,
and searching upwards
the sweet last light of the world.

ground technique

I had a dream I am
in a house like a
maze and I am
running up
and down hallways
opening and closing
doors, jumping down
flights of stairs.
When I wake up
I am exhausted
and my covers are
on the floor
and for the first time
all winter
heat drips from
the radiator.
All over my room
pieces of clothing
hang like fallen leaves
eerie in the half light
one more morning
wet and gray
in this fruitless
boundary between.
Sitting up I
remember other
parts of other dreams
which reach into things
ladle out insides
make you crave
a physicality
that could kill you.
I lift and set down
my coffee cup
more than necessary
feel the warmth
like a creature
sleeping
The spoon is a
metal tool
as basic as a hammer
newspaper with steady
newsprint no snaking
living lines creeping
and making me consider
my location,
making me imagine
a house like a maze
and me running
until I hit the bed rock
in the basement-
until I see the furnace
burning and beating,
howling with
moving picture.

(untitled)

I took the bus to the beach

on a Wednesday night

in the winter

I stayed in an empty house

and still heard

old conversations

The wind blew

through the skin trees

worn with the cold

The picture window was black

but I was picturized

for Bill next door

that night was fitfull

full of misplaced

meaning

Thinking on centuries

of single days

Filling like quick

water

the next morning

I walked on the beach

and collected

white, wide shells to save

and held them against

my belly

I watched the sand ripple

and change

with rivulets of winter sea

and in front of me

suddenly

was a gray seal

I breathed in

and stood still

an old friend

in the kelp

and frozen foam

defined

creatures both of us

alone and real

for a moment myth

fills us

and vanishes

him into the waves

and me into the wind

and wet grit

(untitled)

The planet

         on a long plain

                  stretching its last light

(The most honest ends are the trading illumination of cycles

No clutter, no noise, crescent practicality, soft shadow punctuality)

What god isn’t made of heavy heat and the deepest of stone wells?