Monday, April 27, 2009

2 Poems


We snarl our own immensity.
Things pass away into wolves who only function.
We go through old age then death again.
This in truth be dat.
And though resting luxuriously in the park, he feels sad
About his unwisdom, feels bad about spilling oxygen.
Two hills forward, a plastic water bottle is sharpened
By the falcon's shadow.
Two hills upward, she laughs when its feathers
Fall upon her string bikini bottom.
There's light never born, outside all, deeply quiet
Like the breath of a helicopter's wing.
Two hills becoming, she enriches his posture
And animalistic zing.
Hope is beyond sorrow, hope is beyond what's free.
Go ahead and die for me.


Lucky to be so dumb.
Lucky for poetry, lucky for rugs.
And there is neither day or night, nor what is or
What is not.
Caves under swallowed seas 
Host the hidden parting of all things.

Lucky to be so sound. 
Lucky for perfume, lucky for mounds.
And there is neither stream or desert, nor what was or
What was not.
Wandering calves realize their duty
While dancing upon conveyor belts of beef.

Cardinals bury rocks with spaces and splendor.
The glory of gruel flaps toward its far-away journey
Beyond darkness.
A beast in the basement, eating
Its lost gravy.
A refuge from life where life's no option, unconscious
As a razor beginning to bend.

1 comment:

xTx said...

wonderful and wonderful.