Last Piece of Candy

March 23, 2016 § Leave a comment

The chemical rewards of subtle social dominance. A hot groping in the interstices. Plans about the liquids you store in your body. A new telegraphy. Years of dust accumulating on the engraved tablet. The letters written over themselves. A crow here and there. A nice humming. A numbness. Everybody’s body smells different. Different than the one before. The sexual imperative of never backing down. Sabotaging. Taking the last piece of candy from the bowl. We should give up on gravity resistant bacteria. Start sending ancient relics to the moon. Pieces of Stonehenge and the Great Pyramid at Giza. Cleaning up a bit. So later we won’t be embarrassed about our precipitous decline. Fog at 5am and no sign of the moon. Someone is coming down the hill. It’s not you though. You’re going up the hill. You just don’t notice it anymore.

PAUL M. ant ant ant ant ant seven

March 16, 2016 § 2 Comments

A FAVORABLE EXCHANGE RATE

 

fast river
white seeds
cross without me

 

chance of showers
a frayed rope
linking the mules

 

redwood stumps
some color
left in the sky

 

winter pruning
she changes
away from the window

 

snow outside
everyone else rises
to receive the host

 

hard winter ground
we argue about
the constellations

 

this year’s paintbrush
a path between
granite moraines

 

meeting the neighbors
the shapes of things
hidden by snow

 

warring countries
separated
in the botanical garden

 

spring buds
the creek over boulders
of every size

 

snow-capped peaks
loom across the border
a favorable exchange rate

 

seventh full moon
men at the bar
watching the door

 

string from
a pigeon’s foot
March wind

 

talk of rain
I find myself
in the old neighborhood

 

first sunburn
an ant
on the lily arrangement

 

returning warmth
the first bird
into the house

 

war in the news
new leaves on a tree
my grandfather planted

 

summer dusk
the awkwardness
of a first guest

 

manzanita lanterns
a whole day
for idleness

 

distant thunder
the pigeon coop
ajar

 

flowering maple
the gait of horses
after a long winter

 

rustling grass
bundle of letters
from an old lover

 

earthquake weather
the pliant body
of a sea cucumber

 

heat wave
I count
the remaining eggs

 

red maple leaves
a mosquito bite
scratched open

 

winter nears
a beach full of shells
no two the same

 

crescent moon
a homeless man
asks about Bob

 

chill in the air
fire-blackened needles
still on the pine

 

winter night
a hard crumb
under the sheet

 

even after a snowfall
a gap in the wall
from a missing stone

 

 

 

pareidolia

March 13, 2016 § Leave a comment

 

your bra on

the table it’s

two red napkins

 

 

 

A Haiku

March 4, 2016 § Leave a comment

 

Mist drifts off of the creek. A few bubbles that breach the surface catch the streetlight. New organizational priorities. Limited space. The euphemism of structure. Dig your own hole now. The smooth untrammeled spaces with a fence around them. Fissures forming where things get interesting. Suddenly the demand for punctuation. Symbols that indicate even our pleasant moments will be taken from us. They’re usually the ones who volunteer to go first. The gesture replete with silver fish bones. We’ll pull them out of our bodies through our skin and say “See, they were always there.” “Assassination” has the word “ass” in it twice. We note this in the shower when we’re stepping on the rusted cans you trundled in here in your sleep. I’ll probably just tear this one part out and tape it into a different book. I think I hit my head against the wall one too many times. My sons asleep on either side of me. One a burlap bag of sticks. The other a silk sack filled with warm sand. The swelling moon rises and draws the attention of the branches clawing at the purple sky. The sassafras collectors have arrived. The have a red ball they want to cram into your mouth. The coat worn a little at the collar. A grasshopper crawls from my sleeve. It only has the word “ass” in it once. The chill settles and refuses to budge. The dark-haired robot-girl passes by on the way to the shed again. How to vomit up the black mouth crawling around in my guts. Her eyes pass through my hollow body and cast the shadows of broken clocks on the put-upon pavement. I massage your ankles. Later you throw the toaster at me. I insist on this being a haiku.

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