27 September 2010

Jamais vu

Names are stand-ins, shadows in place of objects.
Someone dipped a clumsy finger in the paint
and traced where you're supposed to live.

I feel like I should have seen you before,
when the required talons snipped
at the whitened edges of fresh photographs.

Somehow, you are unfamiliar, a body composed
of wire and plastic. Waking up in a cold bed,
your name becomes shell, lamina.

I'm supposed to give in to conflicting images,
be certain of the smoke which exaggerates your form,
but I have no idea who you are or what to call you.

24 September 2010


Interspace interlocking,
cutting wires like
crazy. The sunbeam forgot
the rash today. Today,
fossils create the pigment
of wishes and line breaks.
We scatter the bones like marbles
and they end up joining anyway,
crazy pictures in the halflight:
the angles are elbows, fingers are rays.
Pictures become, when breath is added.
The sun is a star, in for a closer look,
and today, we are perfect.

22 September 2010


The pillbox carries the halfmoon, recovery.
These antibiotics cause selective memory.
As sure as anything, the valve will snap
so seamlessly, we can wish it back together.
The pillow is hollow in the center, meaning
it waits for your head, its burden.
We anticipate with bloated egos the arrival
of the afterlife, cradling the notion we
never have to say good-night.
Where is home but an idea bursting, finally held
together with grass and ribbon, the shape of warmth.
Where is home but here or far away where
valves are imaginary, but the snapping is real.