twist off this head and, with your hook, sharp-turned, dip into these cages, pulling with your bait a heart no-more a muscle, weakened, beating as a lipped fish
Posts published in June 2006
Within the tri-fold droplets of a sideways rain, a world, encompassed, travels as would trains– trackings, from station/o’er the cars, to rose of wild shakings, breaking/splitting parsed as passers from/on far
we are as the branches, seeded
to length of limbs, with leaves,
and though we fall, we wilt, we see
our fellows lie or wave to be
as fallen, raised, or swaying, we
are as beacon, pulse, strength
or weak, held in arm, in love of The
There were three siblings of Mormyrid,
a fam’ly nigh you’ll’ve seen;
Staunch in stance were they, these three,
a bubbling of a stream.
When asked what way they kiss,
one said, so slight,
as fear they’d might, but miss,
if wait holds long a night, good-kiss,
while others, wanting, cite
a stranger, swift in-tight to this;
yet one of two, who say they’d choose,
holds to host, as well past due,
shifting frame to window, scene
opened in a view by dream;
while third in last holds fast their heart,
having beat-drawn flight kept in spark
known in lip-sealed secret, ne’r from to-part
There were three siblings of Mormyrid,
a fam’ly ne’r you’ seen,
Staunch in stance were they, these three,
a bubbling of a stream.
When asked what way they kiss,
one said, so slight,
as fear they’d miss, but might,
if wait draws long, a kiss goodnight;
while others ‘cite
a wanting: stranger, swift but tight;
yet one says they’d choose,
a host, in-come
as well past due,
pointing to the window, open’d,
glassy, a scene as seen alone, by view;
while third, in last, holds fast their heart,
by having beat-drawn flight kept spark
as lipped & sealed a lover’s secret
originals of the Mormyrid. they don’t keep their tenses.
There were three siblings of Mormyrid,
a fam’ly nigh you’l’ve seen.
Stance was staunch in they, these electric three,
from bubbling in a stream.
When asked what way they’d kiss,
one said, of slight, they’d likely miss,
in fear of sight or grow’ of cyst,
as loosened draws a tight to this.
Other, wanting, ‘scribed of stranger,
swift in task, a pose of danger,
drawing scene, a dream, of window, hanger,
hastened to by call of anchor.
Third held highest heart, their fasting beat,
drawn of flight, a spark in keep,
to be, lips know, as strong, but meek,
for wait is worth more than who may seek.
“yes. what is time? what is time, but a fubbling of the mind, a celebration of the world, a droughting of the one for respect and acknowledgement of the other?”
“yes. and, yet, time supplies you means of knowing time exists, as with all of these, and more, as yet found-not or willed, as-so-yet, to-be.”
“You know the hesitation with courting a queen?”
“No, I think I don’t.”
“One must be willing to consider one’s self a king, before consorting with a queen.”
“No, I believe that is not so. The same may be said of all roles you lay on others.”
“Yes, but who else would a queen deserve? Who would be the deserver a queen, if not a king alone?”
“Now that, I believe, is the question easily answered. By knowing the roles are but monikers, bestowed, but rarely followed, you may these games avail and find the root of a person, as we are discussing matters of a person here, and not an intangible.”
as they climb, she finds grip of branchen’d tree as lift from ground to sky, a view unseen before, for no means were given, ‘cept the wing’ed kind,
and she, she laughs, having dug high in heaven’s reach of sappen’d mind, a perch long-looked from feet, ’til reached with hand and reversal’s sight, reversed,
and he, he stalls, hoping scene to be but soon-f’ot memory, lang’d from place to ‘motion, turned in eyes as though uncaught by skin, ‘cept mind, alone
when fallen, she, in air, hangs soul to breeze, to calm calamity, swept by wind, thrown and knotted, tense
when fallen, she, in air, holds sight of he, and he, in turn from self, grants wish of she and lands before her,
cracked and bleed’
when plucked from ground, she, through rush of feet, leads him with cry to need the hand and hot-wet eye of mother, tallest, worried, worried by a scream from lungs, near dry
are we all of this, or more?;
is what we do who we are
or are we all a little more?
I drove to your house and found the lights on outside, speaking truth be told as wind laid hands upon me there, infront of window without door, as you leaned from story to say you wished me go, as you had lied, but, unwilling, I, stayed to know these labors had not been in earnest, a likely alibi to being so corrupted, buckled, shattered as the tall stars sprint across a sky in turning fashion, likened to a globe shaken but not by hands, but by twist of falling loose, a dropping spin of high, and to know you stood above me, shouting not, but looking, si’e’, a watcher of my follies, a casualled passings-by