A giant American horse, bigger than all the West, carries ten thousand tiny cowboys. The saddle stretches out dotted with drywall dwellings. Asphalt leather straps connect the gas stations. Inside its hollow body you’ll find no Ajax or Odysseus — just guns, guns, guns, a billion guns.
Journal - Poetry - Satire
A little air
There is nothing so remarkably expansive as human vanity. They even use it to inflate balloons.
Journal - Poetry
A Pleasure
A pleasure is not a shallow pastel, a cartoon angel, a giddy bubble. A pleasure has teeth, time and shadow. Oceans are tugged back by the moon’s leash. I feel the salt in my blood. I taste her tongue. The storm waves hurl breathtaking spray up through stone fists. Limbs and bones fall into place, earth’s embrace thick mineral space where only life escapes unless it burrows, deeper seeking treasure, seeking home. The split husk, the swelling germ — death and life tumble, screw up the sheets of earth’s bed in vegetal coitus and Thou art That, leaf-rot and lipstick, […]
Poetry
Stellar residue
A faint red glow, a retreating star… it won’t escape. It was, and so it is and will remain entangled in memory. On the nerve-fed retinal field cones reach like leaves for light from the bottom of the eye’s ocean. A ghost star no longer there hangs in the sky, the myth of the present inscribed in a constellation. Would you find fame and be called a star? Would you ever shift away from their eyes? Will you be long gone by the time they name your residue of light?