Four Poems




There’s June in Monday and trill in the flower,

even in the midst of empirical

winter, glowing ice in my pocket,

snow in my fist peeling viral thunder—


furiouser, furiouser, my love, my right,

abolished fiction, imagination’s rent

margin hardens even under ace

condition, twinned macramé wire on wire.


To the crisis born, the downward pool

of devolution laps embryonic,

each curl contains a level plus fold,

notched in double-bound triple rhythm—


the glass perception of perpetual

renewal, helix unwhirled as the fall





For the character and the content. For

the combination of the two. By which

formula may I speed your healing? I

remove the rods of genius glowing to go


a-historical. I am prodding the sand

like a bad, bad man. Like a raper with

a switch and a banner, one in each hand.

I court my violence. I play ball on that court.


The King is bored by my antics, which are

after all, useless. “Bring in the Minister

of Function,” he declares in front of me.

I become the Minister of Implication,


my senses enriched as uranium

and no less stable.





mid-March, perchance to sleep, to seem human

                               once                 this is the end of the lattice as I

knew it                    thought lined up

                               like dolls, soldiers, black and red


                               lack of sleep, a bump on the callous

of time                    profoundly idiotic, strangely

                                                   gripping as if that manic jabber were

good-looking          flat morning on window

façade                    the split world catching radial pool

                                                   on fire but not here, not yet, and I


dying as you are dying distracted, in debt


                                                   to gods of will, malice,


sheer fathom, sheer plumb as depth,

          there is no bottom to feel, conceive





To learn without purpose or direction was

my benediction, because I valued thinking

          & feeling. To scrape my way back

          to feeling & follow


sound over water, that all

          my love & complexity would be a ()

                    or some thing that wants

                    to be out of me & I am no more autobiography


than someone else’s impression. Nor am I,

          to respect the life of me, the body

                    washing & vanishing its need of me.


If freedom is purpose, what frequency

          shall I keen this day, bluer, mixed clouds & sun

a cocktail for grandeur that in my own way I,