Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Goodbye Iko







We'll miss you buddy.

Thursday, April 05, 2007

Anthurium ears

She sheaths her thoughts like bracts:
modifies the latch
to let enter some,
aloof from the rest.

She winds her flimsy midori gown taut
against her breasts, the remnants
spool down her hips
into a comely dress

She lets what she needs in
via ear-duct
then back out through her breath

Although they mimic flowers,
her body does it best.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Why How When What Write?

I write many letters to friends over months,
then send them all at once.

Exaggerate the tails on my g's so when people read it, and hate it -
they still say "But wOw! Look at the tails on those g's!!!!"

I write because I am too old to lasso the moon.

I write to have something to show for my thoughts.

I write ambidextrous to see if a new voice arises.

I write to save CO2 emissions.

To collaborate.



Why how what when where do you write?

Mobius

His inseparable umbrella:

Mnemonic devices aside,
he primed our hood
for hail and asphalt.

Episodic buoyancy

All antecedents
are built upon antecedents
All things precede and succeed, eventually.

Snapped Nostalgia

Used to remember you as a
rumble in my stomach
A hunger stuck inside
like a habit that
adheres itself to one’s mind.

Now your face has faded
further into the backdrop–
a mere fleck in the scenery.

Holy Forest Companionship

An autumn aspen grove
as blanket on our skin
Build a home under the hover of
white trunks and tawny leaves

Rhizomes pulsate through
our frigid, curling bodies
We feel the beat beneath us
as the earth releases heat

When words reveal themselves

I found a slit of paper buried between the rust colored sheets of my bed. The size was fit for a Chinese fortune, it read: "'…weaving a home out of poor materials.' 115" and I wondered what it was from but then instead, decided to provide a place for it to go:

Swerving the cones you imagine on the road
You’re missing the lines with your tires by inches

Your inchoate ideals build a faulty base
One hundred and fifteen ideas misplaced
Stacked poorly, the soggy logs of your logic–
One weaving a home out of poor materials.