Archive for 1984

Power Return

11 Aug

Rimbaud has received me,
and I rock his drunken boat. A fever
frothing both his mouth and mine,
each glitter phosphorous, sublime
kamikaze believer.
His archipelagos
in the stars
now wet with perspiration of dry
summer sucking stones,
open woes.

He welcomes me in my madness,
assures me I am nothing but
sheer speechless vision,
pale flier of raw bone.

                            The poet
makes himself seer by a long
prodigious and rational disordering
of the senses. Every form of love,
of suffering, of madness, he searches
himself, he consumes all the poisons
within him, keeping only
their quintessences...

I nod gently on this wine,
chewing on the tettered ends
his long-snapped kept bargeline
reveals, aged like finer cheese,
mankind's more

[ 1984, Washington, DC ]

Wipe Those Feet

18 Apr

Each American city evaporating
into the clean cool dusk
experience sends tapping nervous patients
on suspicious knees, devoid of grassy knolls,
brokering unabridged entropy, fixated
on last hope expense checks electronically mailed,
and yet without fair warning.

We laugh out of sheer geometry,
absorbed in a crackling worth, our capacity
for sweet shock stilled for camera shots
and misfitted shoes of fortune gaping a t the naked
grizzled flesh, shoving it across in public
bodies of water and wine and mud...

We drop our coin
into each inverting slot,
pulling a bag behind the bushes,
a bag actively malevolent, still cruising
our crusted minds like a decade
we forgot to peel.


"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""