all on one line

obdurate ennui. on night's wan filigree scales, it doesn't weigh much.

quasi-antepenultimate

shudder, Atropos
the shears are blunt and useless --
someone's cut paper.

haiku & four tanka

a lava flood of
frauds, maladministrations:
archaeology.
we subside in realtime, beh-
happy Friday; bon courage.
12 sept 2014 - Lafcadio Hearn would have recognized these forms.

autumn's second wind
night sirens in October
stop counting sounds, please--
some sleep, some dance, some suffer
and you're wide awake writing.
5 oct

would you had your own
sustenance, abundant streams,
endless verdant fields.
would the world were not so dry,
every axis were equal.
18 nov:  
"nobody ever said life was gonna be fair" 
-karen lambert, 6th grade gym class, 1996 

at least, in abstract
we are satori dancing
all shy, tentative embrace...
then we go supernova
on contact in open air.
25 nov - as it burns

At night, the wind tells
only as much as the stars
cannot spell themselves.
19 oct

an enchanted sentiment

flowers I send my Valentine,
passionate, their colours deep
shout of a lover on my mind...
as long, at least, as memories keep.

appropriately, they last a week
then mummification -- the compost heap.

 2/20/14, edited 6/9/22 -- al baterista, siempre

in an indefensible place

open chest, insert javelin here --
the parade began with a cymbal clash.
the evening wore silk lipstick secrets
and hovered, leering, six inches too near.
now there's one you can trust to talk:
spitting out coffee grinds, cigarette ash,
marking out a bed in makeshift chalk
she'll recline on an earnest error and hiss
the synopsis to morning, dozy with bliss.

you mean cupid wasn't an archer by trade?
as accurate, yes, but less likely to balk.
his arm, if the arrow proves poorly made
aims naked hope at the dullest brow
those sweet, sad eyes perfectly mourning
the projectile as it leaves his hand
the graceful arc tracing the fatal line
of how much you never know at the time
but lord, don't you now!

thank god for the shiftless night,
the gypsy caravan returns to the city.
ambrosia hangovers are flippant and light
like day-old ignorance dispensed in pity.
maybe sell this all as an enthralling perfume
(for those who don't mind bee stings
or appalling twists of outrageous fortune)
but mind a light touch as you measure.
see, care didn't warn me on the pensive road back
drifted off, as usual, in a mistaken pleasure
dizzy on the vapors of giddy regret
and all the cautions that fools forget.

so. brunch in the graveyard, mid-afternoon?
I shall come with the wine, yes, but not in black.
the love I hadn't met, I heard he was dying.
first came the press of a future lack,
and then the relief, the grateful sighing --
I plan to attend the funeral, soon.
for Zack 
coepta 23 feb 2013
desita 19 feb 2014

french lesson

tous nous sommes fils naturels de cette cochonnerie.
(we are all the bastard children of this ---)
speak the matter not so plainly, 
don't spell it as such a simple name.
you see, cochonnerie, so rich in
its connotation and history, is but one
of the more virtuously discerning,
insinuatingly burning means to
convey a sense of reproach and disdain
the word by sound itself in the main
recalling the grunting of hogs in slop
brings the indictment to a full, haughty stop.

cut-corner

    there was a certain feeling along the narrow streets and stiletto alleys.  it was the second day of December and the dusk hovered steadily around too-warm-for-a-jacket-degrees.  a man dismounted from a still-rolling bicycle and wipe the sweat from his brow.  a dribble of snot went along for the ride.  the dusk hovered steadily at don't-bike-wearing-a-jacket Celsius, and the asphalt exhaled a laden breath of day cares, what-for rush, eight-hour frustrations and twelve-hour delights deferred.  there was a certain implication in mute glances and barely licked lips as another man, seated outside the café on the corner, watched the first man walk in to said shop and softly request vodka in the coffee and cream to boot.  there are certain stories that draw in a short breath, lips parted over white teeth in anticipation of a secret spilled, and then think better of it all, and leave only the delicious shiver of a need unfulfilled as they contemplate the ripples of restrained words on a glass of Italian soda.
    "My kingdom for a cigarette," said the second man to the first as he settled into a chair for a white Russian and a smoke.  the first half-glanced over and readied a noncommittal "no" before eyes headed off language at the pass and turned the truncated sound into a weak cough.
    "Certainly," stumbled out the response.  hands clumsily rooted around inside of a purple leopard-print bag, fingers fumbled excitedly for purchase on two slim cylinders, eyes darted somewhat nervously from pack to coffee to interlocutor and back.  meaning is seldom as easily found as a lighter, so the lighter served as a surrogate, the cigarette as a stalling tactic, inhalation and combustion as cheap imitations of coherent thought and successful expression, as number two gave thanks to number one, who in turn gave confused gratitude to whatever serendipity had landed him next to a handsome stranger with a need easily fulfilled, and on a lonely and uncertain evening.  presently, when internal monologue had almost built a strong enough springboard to leap unfettered into the brighter airs of the spoken word, a clarinet riff sounded from the bag and scattered the whole nascent colossus back into pebbles and sand.
    "Excuse me," said number one with a healthy hint of annoyance.  he had already turned his attention from any forthcoming response to manipulate a small, balefully glowing screen into revealing its contents, a disinterested prestidigitation that started at the fingers and spread quickly to the face.  an erstwhile lover's sister, seeking the company of souls named Molly and Cid.  of all the boneheaded impositions: an attempt at a drug deal, seeking merchandise he'd lost the art to acquire some years since.  he did not attempt a reply for fear of losing the tenuous thread of attention which bound him to the tousled man in the seat opposite, but that one had already turned to resume a listless conversation with a frumpy girl pacifying a distempered dog.  he sighed, and put down the phone just in time to unwitting, serendipitously hear the man's last remark:
    "And then the stupid fuck had the nerve to send his sister asking if I'd sell some of the best acid I've had since The Crystal Method was a household name.  The nerve of some twinks, eh?"  This last volley he aimed panoramically, beginning as the girl turned to slap the dog away from a raspberry scone and swinging a full 180 degrees to find its terminus on the first's face in the precise moment that it collapsed from a mask of disbelief into a barely concealed, smoldering ruin of thwarted hope.
    "Pardon me," said he, rising from his seat distractedly to pull his jacket back on, almost departing before he recalled his pack of cigarettes, which the second had begun to eye with mild avarice.  the smoking, decimated remnants flared into a stony wall of silence.  he slid the box into his pack, nodded fraternally to the second, and rounded the corner to the busier street.  the text would go unanswered as a certain feeling that crept along the gutters stretched out, reptilian, and laid itself down beneath rotten leaves and midden detritus to wait out the cooling night for the inevitable sunrise.