Poets

Supreme Fiction or Lavish Absence: From The Dusk Of My Ghost House - Adventures Of An Autodactyl - A Vanity Mildly Tourettic


for us all —
in unstoried
astonishment


Here horseflies feast.

Upon weathered stones are
only creases where once were
names, dates, God's Word,
chiseled by a now unknown
hand, an impression only, one
among many, reduced to no
plot but that of Providence
left to surmise swatting at
Eucharistic flies proving only
flesh and only blood, a flood
of questions eventually
exhaled and exhaling still,
waiting beside a white rock
with wings, ignoring fires,
leaning into changes.


These Graceless Things

these graceless things, Autumnals most
now, now all einfalle, footfalls of a life
gathering, guttered, muttering often enough
for a bit of daylight or, sounded tinnily enough,
'distraction fits', more like keeping the bit in
the mouth, letting the mane lead, tack the
tales, it, some of it all, keeps coming back
to me for reprise or mercy or even glad
surprise of at least a line, a phrase, an image,
an effortful stammer that is more than a
glance against the nog, nog, noggin' along

with apologies to Red Robin


'... the poem of a spiritual quest which never defines itself...' - Wallace Fowlie, 'Rimbaud, The Myth of Childhood'

'A single long sentence without cesura forever unintelligible.' - St, John Perse, 'Exil'

'... The trick is to find heaven and ever let it go...'
'... A problem w..