Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Poems Written While Visiting Gabriel Shaffer's Studio, Asheville, NC, 07/19/04


O my the speed is what happens
All in the name of our seat.
Plastic builds one thing,
To bash glass is another
Civilization thought doomed.
Eastern cables hook the Western lung.

A cigarette at every rest stop.
Little crickets and thoughts of doom.
Freed a king
But not a resource.
O dearest daughter,
O dearest rat,
Freshly these mountains boil.

At hand is our skull
At hand is our conch
At hand is our axe
At hand is our colony
The ancient weather
Of ancient thermal
Waits for another blank drag
Containing the weary
Distant infections
Sheltered and
Watching the boom
Summon a stapled glass sun
At hand is our coin
At hand is our lion
At hand is our arrow
At hand is our flute
Our mouths wide open
Our mouths tightly closed
In questions
A weeping
When the wick disintegrates
Cold nubs of pyramid mud
Regretting all third eyes on their prized cherry
At hand is the pheasant
At hand is the comb
At hand is the bead
At hand is the stove
Of scorned deposits
Howling a single platter
Playful yet brooding
In two birds
I'm watching
Two sane dots
Letting virtue pass


Pierced with profiles
And no palate of hormones to follow,
Hints of subterranean evacuation
Plead do not hold the door.

Juiced for justice,
Elitists and futon experts untie passionate leviathans.
My benefactor is erect.
My courage draws a kite.
Hark, here flares the pin trunk trinity.

I'm told where to rest my hearse in heaven.
A huge downtown
Was the supplier of your strawberry.
In spite of customs ready for the hurricane,
Gravity forgoes a mashed appendix.
I've got dollars to explain the everyday self-dismemberment plug.

The bitterness is uprooted
By plenty of hay carts to hurl on.
Since breakfast,
I am followed to where my nostrils grow obtuse.
They usher me into a closet and ride me
As she rides me all the way to frost.

My veins are erect.
It's a testament to things expelled.
An oppression of one's banal sediment.
I avenge why you always slap it upside the trashcan lid.
I avenge why you endow
The constant savage in the triggers fired.

Sock drawer
Mite windmill
Power-line prostitutes
Drip wind
Into my old pond
The spicy hawks steady
Their last meals and stay underground
Must a boundless fuel surprise even our corpse
No hoot arrives
Yearning for the not yet

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