DOPPELGÄNGER

here is the

split—a low
tuning fork,

entrylevel
docetism

under a
blue moon.

:;:

web dreams,
unsilked,

without
eight eyes,

without
nine arms,

just another
walking ahead

of you.

WAITING ROOMS

a doze
-n empty

television
screens, hide

our wound
up minds.

it’s all
seconds, here—

glass and curtains,
separations, antiseptic,

just the place
for our hopes to

endlessly stalk
echoing hallways.

“NO LAND UNINHABITABLE, NO SEA UNNAVIGABLE”

some summer here,
this someplace, concrete
island, steel-river-ed over
other, older streams

a super-imposed geography,
faked land-writings, regulated,
unlike and like a thousand
other someplaces, except

that space, the place of the
last dread alternative, will
unwilled, un-lime-d, un—
lined papers, the chart-less where

“the very sunbeams froze…”

FOOL’S GOLD

formulas decay—moon-ly,
absent an alchemist,

but we’re here:

in morning,
each morning,

all front-doors and facades,
to recalculate

the weight

of our leaden hearts.

-SHUN

a night stuck with needless

a song half heard in the remembering

a road more absent than rising

a day becomes another, an other day walks in its place

a pen breaks its lead

a puddle of water cracks like the tumbled glass

a moon swallows several clouds, later it will vomit blue bits in front of a bar, in front of a bus stop

a bed waits, half-full or half-empty, like an argument with a pessimist

a(n) a a(waits), as(ssumes) a((n)other))

šən…šən…šən…

-SHUN

a night stuck with needless

a song half heard in the remembering

a road more absent than rising

a day becomes another, an other day walks in its place

a pen breaks its lead

a puddle of water cracks like the tumbled glass

a moon swallows several clouds, later it will vomit blue bits in front of a bar, in front of a bus stop

a bed waits, half-full or half-empty, like an argument with a pessimist

a(n) a a(waits), as(ssumes) a((n)other))

š?n…š?n…š?n…

NOW HOW WOUND SOW?

ein-eyed, Wednesday bears
some sloppy breath, a broke
word, gasped out, if heard.

herded buildings stand before
a storm, never wrought, no
rain, all the moisture was already

here.

SHED

that ol’ skin, written upon,
spine-cracked.

habits and scratched jewels,
encasing the sound

of matrix printer symphonies,
a flashback of some left behind
love, a lash

draw out the lines of flight,
for others, a trace, the red
shining tails of cars

at night, the television hums,
concrete teeth fall outside or

inside—the urge, to saw off
a skull cap, a bonetonsure,
to expose one’s inner

and wet, grayish labyrinth
to trace out, with one’s own

fingertips.

APOLOGIA

forgive my too loud untutored breaths
a thousand slimy Tudors swarmed my nostrils, fortified my lungs, expelling proclomations in coughs, hangings in hack, half-hearted reformations in a soundbarrier breaking sneeze.

I am reduced to dodging calls
like slick rubbery balls, in sweatmatted dark middle school rooms, a purgatorial pummeling, a baddreammemory of greensweatpants, first glasses, limitless limbedawkwardness.

all the dishes are sunk and dirty
a dry well, inkblack, some where fielded—a shrunken day, away, a way aways, I hum as I avoid the chores, an office unfloored almost, the siren call of sloth falling down
like dread pollen from trees.

all my beliefs become pseudodoxical
an untoward sigh, signs left unclaimed, a path you stumble along, pebbles to place on rough, red tongues, on smooth white tongues, on tongueless gums, to pound into place replacing teeth.

all my words become apologies.

TOSSED

the television is a flood,
the cat a gray anchor in
gray waves—

my dreams become
increasingly unreliable
navigators,

casting away

their dull brass astrolabes,
their looking glasses, and

watching with bare eyes,
my driftwood limbs swept

up in an increasingly un
-friendly current, driven

onto the rocky shores of
another’s morning.