A Fragment Of "Cataract"

...And the TV sang "from the bottom of a well,"
balling up the world into hydrogen and heat--
spaghettifying the world to dark energy and cheap meat--
the dimensionless dot under the question mark slagged off into the sky,
the fragment-sound in orbit struggling to shake the hell outta time...

we never drank the water again and dedicated fall fleets
sputtering 'for the uninitiated--A Mountain of Leaves...
and the slave of the brain bored by a bell.'

Alive After A Certain Type of Death

the wave of things i didn't write exhumed me,
bubbles of air and water,
breath--blood, ground up by that dozer
chugging on like a leaf to certain ends
and to the vulgar magic of what the future brings in waves.

How Every Angle Blends Together

Water shook the setting sun, the red glare thoughtful, gazing...
Through atmosphere the edge of the circle burst outward
Hiding another world beneath plasma burn where other planes
Shape reality's hum.

Lilacs and marsh heather stalled their growth
Waiting for the sky to dissolve
Or the earth to evolve,
But the edge of the circle held, and
Every etch of the fractal arc
A seagull's quark stretching a thread
That remembered the sea.

The trees locked by ice held their ground
And with each rock sang their tune of you,
Irradiating us closer to our fears
Which radios broadcast in the thousand colors
We stole to paint a bird.

We cried when we realized the paint could
Never capture the path, the love
That all the threads and feathers of the sea brought to us,
And we laughed when we saw something there
That had painted itself--
A fool of a king to rule our realms--
The thieves we were were changed,
The delicate interplay of all the pieces clickbuzzing the shift...

At night they slept, ringed by the resolve
Found when seeking with head and heart;
Each ancient dream surged--
Still lives--waiting at that red arc's edge,
Though books and the eyes of hiistory
Focus more on the salt
Marshes devoured when they were young.

And every spring it rains grey in the mountains in Nepal
Filling the cataracts like life in monasteries,
The water washing everything, the setting sun,
And shining us with the depth of never going alone.

the last pot roast on earth

for Drook

on the very last friday of the very last calendar
someone scribbled a skull and cross bones

and we recycled all the old diet ginger ale cans
fashioned them into a sail that captures dirty molecules

*
for Katy

local december fridays colder than febuary that year
those slowed moments sat at the table, a pen and paper

the computer generated aliens looked ridiculous,
but pot roast in the made for tv movie beckoned.

while land race gamma rays ate up the stars
the final birds sang laughing at magic eye views,

I remember burning every book we'd read to keep warm,
and how we sailed on feeling guilty for finding the way out

Why Wait?

damage drives hunger
up and down the coasts of fear;
the south still has plans...

Sunder Kin

turning skies to head
the way mountains cover death,
time to let it count.