Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Rain / Dream: 18
There's a round of applause
in a darkness coded Beyond Reason.
A random fifteen-minute selection:
bowl of steaming leftover canned cow stew,
string-tied bundles of True West magazine,
sunlit vintage cowboy postcards in a shop window....
Or: video of Syrian chlorine gas victims...
corneal-burned... wheezing blood-vomiters.
Or: a family snapshot of roly-poly Kim Jong Un
pleasuring a bed of strawberry jelly donuts.
Or: film footage of Russian tanks blood-rumbling
over Ukrainians as if they are inflatable Disney toys.
More applause, mostly from sentimental geezers
(Obama Forward T-shirts from the last campaign)
dropping quarters into rusty newspaper machines...
imagining that all Vlad Putin needs is the kind of hug
one gives in the hallways of Cheap-Opinions State U.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Rain / Dream: 17
A moon so gaudy it hides
behind clouds off the Pacific:
Trajan's nightmare of Rome
turning burnt-leaf Christian.
An old man crashes through
a midnight farmhouse,
living room furniture to beat
a Wolfhound pup to an electric-
orange plastic ball... compensatory
sport as a sagebrush basin
picks up wind for a dust storm.
It is the sound of Caligula
unpacking to rule while others
pray some general can hook
a chain to the moon...
drag it down-mountain,
drown it in a deep sea.
Monday, April 14, 2014
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Rain / Dream: 16
The core is barely visible,
or perhaps not there, for compulsive
self-searchers. Ravished surfaces,
raw nerve endings... black five-buckle
boots hung from neutral-brown walls....
One thing leads to cartoon-
plastered walls. Another thing
gets you caught... bumper-dragged
for miles... a raw-meat possum.
Memory: erotic bible scene tapestries
(creams, river-blues, blood-wet reds)...
an eerily calm Saturday night convent.
There is no farther apart than such-like.
Rain / Dream: 15
Shooting for the reportorial, a string
of painted-rough prayer beads,
night-purple, you babble-for-practice
at the Wolfhound yanking you forward.
Headlights slope downhill... a distance
you pattern-out... like fashion magazine
after-scenes when woodblock prints
are passed around and humility
is a hunched shoulder at-shrug.
Within days the moon's ash-white
will transmogrify to blood-cinnamon.
Eclipse: time-ravaged table flower.
Friday, April 11, 2014
Rain / Dream: 14
Against the grain of wood, gold, or stone,
a gritty wind sweeps off the Cascades,
across foothills, down to bunchgrass.
You're an imaginary creature to Mr. Coyote,
hardly noticed by crow or spring gopher.
You take rest on a shelf of volcanic rock.
You peel a handful of aluminum foil...
sliced cow on soggy raisin bread.
You drowse... a version of no-self.