jornales

for a moment of joy or moments no one pays for, i give myself a ‘jornal’. this makes me rich. try it.

cackling

the measured widths we shrink into

talking in the darkness like late crickets heaving up a molehill

a cackle of office meniscus

summer drizzle a wet stone growing an ear

in a sonogram frog song

lollipops in the basket some promises un-swapped

war of the fishes stilled in a pitted clam shell

 

otata November 2017

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February 28, 2018 Posted by | haiku, poetry, sequence, Uncategorized | , , , , , | Leave a comment

too late

too late

“dead cells”, they say of hair, same thing about nails, skin, too, that                                         sloughs off tempers, hurts, lusts, and regrets, which send the heart hurtling in Hades

caterwauling

flailing braided hair of nymphs, could they have been instruments of  execution? and the mane of golden boys, pennants in the eyes of virgins… unbeknownst dripping of night

a prolonged moon

on hair that has found its own rights and freedom, denuded by tectonic eruptions spewing inner fire, deluded by the burst of spring that by the time it booms, a live head

thuds on a stone grate

 

otata November, 2017

February 28, 2018 Posted by | free verse, poetry, Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

three works (they say/about the spheres/interpretentions)

 

1.

they say

mountain clouds

implode in a colic

 

a stare brings on

revolts

 

snow buntings invite

green eyes

 

fibrous bones

roll down a mulch hill

 

a rasp in his caws

one catches

 

wild weeds

pierce fresh wombs

 

in a clam shell

of not-thereness

 

2.

 

about the spheres

 

a wink enough
to lift
the moon’s hem

a slivered blue
licks paradise

part grit part
fluff the foaming universe

constellations stringing rocks into falsies

concoctions a boom of moon craters

 

3.

 

interpretentions

 

with my lips, I accept the many ways grass wears dew that Van Gogh kept secret

 

I agonize so much so that my stomach contracts regurgitating Dali’s white lies

 

a valley of lilies I hurtle into with eyes closed on Monet skinny dipping

 

the spastic leg throws of marionettes as Picasso dreamt I can

 

together shedding barnacles from cliffs chipped clean in cubes Mondrian says his own

 

thieves inhabit the hippocampus of dawn beetles scaling the spirals of Gaudi’s nights

 

my singed heart hurts so the onyx solitaire Klee entraps with dancing threads

 

 

otata April 2017

February 15, 2018 Posted by | fragments, haiku, poetry, sequence | , , , , , , | Leave a comment