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.
Just a temporary man, who writes poetry and listens to too much noisy music. His hobbies include salivating about glaciers destroying civilization and the cultivation of facial hair. Additionally, he generally strives to make himself as useless as possible....follow the thread back...
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.
Posted in Poetry, Words | No Comments »
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.
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“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…”
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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.
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-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…
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-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…
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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