Friday, September 19, 2014



If I were to tell you
what you’d have to do to
commute your life sentence to bliss,
it would more or less add up to this. Give it a kiss.


Schizophrenia’s Love Call


How I’d cultivate the Grand Spectacular for you! –
spend a half-a-billion, maybe two, on digitally
mastered three-dimensional depictions
of innumerable legions of conscripted Roman army –

disciplined and glistening in glorious expensive
onslaught on the few resisting creatures who
refused its Pax Romana – blood would spill,
as in DeMille – picturesquely gorgeous violet

and crimson violence would justify the human spirit’s
craving for the carving up of bodies in the name
of status quo and honorable peace: muscular
behemoths would be gleaming in their cinematic

grease: I'd bequeath you all the requisite
exquisite horror I could find – expunge the damned
and damaging ambiguously human grunge that
generates equivocal reflection in your fragile mind:

before we’re done you would accept the ultimate
unquestionable One of Me; inexorable Love
would be your school, and you would know an end
to every anarchy. Let me rule, my little jewel.


Thursday, September 18, 2014

Poetic Explanation

Morphological amorphousness
accounts for our discernible beginnings –
as if the innings of the misbegotten
psychic baseball game that functions

as a trope illuminating what we hope
might open up the crux of all that hooks us
into being had occurred on some
forgotten diamond watched by no one.

(Got that?
I must be
the slow one.)