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Sunday Scars/Honey

October 31, 2012

Fallen denim,
a chime is broken by choice of light.
A home for keeping your ashes’
slow eviction under
congealed pine.

Tone for atonement,
even as this quiet brings about
the greater warmth,
your limbs are screaming.

Time is asking us
to lay our clay against the mountain,
and tonight
I’m all for taking up requests.

Western Mirror

October 1, 2012

Light of sharpened smiles,
light of arrogant glimmer.

The city glutton spits hungry,
checking its navel for celluloid

As rhinestone for the vomitorium,
the sixth star denies entrance;

blue assignment of exit-wound red,
lest your chocolate tempers
just so,

your spices tuft its corners
and you never rival mirrors facing west.


September 18, 2012

Elixir of lost calls,
into the night withdrawn.

To know him is to love what never blooms,
to love what has too little shape to hate.

Thought for a pouring,
as the stars refusal for focus

take to new lines cross a grin of brick,
new florescence leads to unfamiliar vows.

Sweet Flag/Vivisectus

September 2, 2012

Follicles sting, a brackish decision
to claim antiquated columns,
the listless collar
tired of its nape in pulse.

What could not be said makes its honey
bled inside a sun burnt stone,
fed between this copper hour

and the thirst of hazel eyes,
guilt for fugitive water.

Tomorrow, Wolves

August 31, 2012

Tomorrow wolves

sign off November for a swan white season,

licking red or blue boredom

in front of sycophantic mirrors.


Today children

speak like bullets into each other’s eyes

some kneel, faces obscured;

their muzzles aim away from ancestral glares.


Yesterday’s doves

pick over submersible steel,

sanctioned by a capillary thirst, interpolated heads of state

all dead and papered and cavernous –


but, what towering of lead

will swallow our sunset glances next?


Mesmer and the Twenty-first Parallax

August 29, 2012

Under hypnosis of dying clouds

we wear our safety melted over sand-pocked thumbnails

of half-eaten apple pies, a passive spoon,

guilt-grazing tines peeking through a double-breasted pocket.

Infantile wrinkles win the argument

to lay claim to primer time, mechanized irises.

We cover our faces, pixelate our mortgage windows,

as mothers, tracing rust on their belts,

hang up their kitchen skin,

and vivisect electric messages from new antique reflections.


July 25, 2012

who will deny the ring

and kiss the bedside cameo

someone hungry for the image

without the mirror



circus in fatigue

wanting a mirrorball as dull

as its chain

as full as wire in our mended guts


someone to scratch

the coin for another mouth

and open hands

to have to hold the sword


the oath to never love

as sweetly

so much the sun

a yellow envy stealing our years

leaves empty handed

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