Relict

Relict (12/7)

The ring sits on the shelf
A knot of dust - worn band

The mirrors are tilted away from my face

All the tile in the bathroom is cold

It is a museum - reliquary
Some thumb sealed in glass
        for three hundred years

Turning a light on is like taking a photo

Every surface will have red-eye

Nutty

Nutty (12/6)

The ginger is full of roaches - I scoop them out
            one    by    one

with a long handled spoon        they are growing
into palmetto bugs - are translucent - are humming
the
            ginger is a pile of beads - buttermilk necklace
            the    thread is        floss
a    chain    of teeth

around your neck
                        they are my baby teeth
roots are knuckles clawing your clavicle

In the dream where we are ninjas in a bank - a bank!
            we have katana
and sleep on couches

The roaches become dragons - scales tilting like solar panels
            one    by    one

They absorb all light - focus their eyes

            are    shooting        lasers

Pink

As cheesy as something like this



is, I can't help but smile a bit.

Parse

Parse (12/5)

A love despairing is not a despairing love
            is not a pineapple on a table separating endlessly

The room splits and the walls are peel
they slide and remake as an origami lotus

A table of glass is only sand after all
            is only a Ocean City beach re-purposed as Jesus

Books will melt again and again
show themselves to be molting winter fur

A fur coat is not a coat of fur

These pages are bodies and the will never keep you
you warm they are oil slicks on beaches

They are contrails diffusing quickly

Snowball Theater

Late post tonight. I was at Meg's New Friend. Which is a great play written by my good friend Blair Singer showing in the west village at Manhattan Theater Source. Go see it if you are in the area.

Speaking of plays. Tomorrow night I am going to see THIS. Be jealous if you must.

Today's poem is very seasonal even though the weather is not. It's also tiny.


Snowball (12/4)

Ice on wool palms - pushing round
forming tightly - until the sting
Tossing into the expanse - the cotton sound of impact

Profession Advent

My internet is back up.
So here is a poem for today:

Profession (12/3)

The labyrinthine mold of my brain aims to be the sun
It’s darkest corners alight over lands yet to be founded

I knowledge a room into existence
Purely to break it apart into microns

This particle of sand was a chair and it is now fodder
A tree was once a lily or a bedpost

I upright the world along a horizon that I cut from void
The maze will trick everyone in the end

It will pull you towards center then reveal nothing
There is no center that can possibly hold

This sun is a Milky Way spiraling outward alarmingly
Pulsing with the quickness of my heart and blinking

with my drumbeat eyes my mind is a guillotine
snapping at the necks of anything that comes close


And one for yesterday:


Advent (12/2)

New York opens its arms
The spreading expanse of Brooklyn pulling
Across the waters of the East River an aunt dies

Somewhere a leaf shivers on a bough – not having the good sense to fall
Snow drifts lazily and the bosom of winter is a subway ride at 5am

New York screams at all hours
A hushing sound more in line with an ocean than people
The leaf is still holding as buds begin to unwind

In the botanic garden the magnolia bloom
Each a teacup collecting water – a fragrant ivory curve

The arms are open but the breast is cold
Stony – she is too busy with the millions others
Across the waters of the Hudson more family drift silently away

Smiling and full of hope – dripping like the buildings
New York is a quiet succubus

Monoidal Popper

Internet should be back up Thursday. So here are the poems for today:

Monoidal (12/1)

Michael Wilson is sleeping through the day
He is dreaming about being a ninja - in a bank - in the rain
He is sleeping on a couch in a foyer - wrapped in down comforters
Michael Wilson is eyes closed

Michael Wilson is running a fever for weeks
He is feeling the pressure of skin on skull
He is watching snow - rain - wind - pile in the vacant lot
Michael Wilson is petting a cat

Michael Wilson is a geometric equation
He is a network frame with a cybernetic skin - a concept realized
He is walking through walls and magnetized
Michael Wilson is a recording of himself

Michael Wilson is walking dizzy in the city
He is unsure of the past and future - weary of this concrete - anxious
He is sleeping while awake and sees everything in pink Michael Wilson is becoming a closet of ghosts


And yesterday:

Popper (11/30)

- to enjoy the threesome - I pull
the string - a crown a fortune a
little plastic unicorn - lubricant
sheets over the floor - the sound
snapping fingers - a dick pulls out -