October 20, 2011 - late morning

she tries to stanch the bleeding with conversation
her words, like fingers
frostbitten and stiff,
wet-slick, warm on the surface now with the blood,
cold where the blood no longer flows
cold inside
she tries to patch her wound with contemplation
silently reproaching the knife
for its hilt,
she smooths out her detachment, pressing it to
frozen, bleeding flesh
but soon, already, always, it swells with her blood

September 17, 2011 - afternoon

clamor deceives;
for most of the
cosmos,
nothing happens

December 22, 2010 - an hour after midnight

clades of disagreement,
shaping themselves as an ersatz
godling, etheric, unreal and casting
no shadows, where light
escapes and electrons pace
their own clades of
pliant objectivity,
itself a fiction, even now a lie and more
and the all over the place
becomes the never, and nowhere
do we find ourselves,
trapped by distances
and the disagreements that fill the gaps
the clades, the instance of the face,
a quirk in lips, the lingering eyelid,
a dissonance in lambent notes,
replaced now with the spaded
night of faceless
discontent

November 28, 2010 - almost midnight

damage collects itself
in its limitless instances -
you ought to know this
but you have too many
wounds to pay attention
so I can't scold you,
or I won't;
but -
you don't get
forever
to figure it out;
death and dying follow
all this damage
follow even the crystalline security
of a bogomil spirit world; -
so,
older than the name I wear
and older than the memory of
the feeling of my self
I wonder at those wounds,

the ones which neither kill,
nor heal in due time...

Sunday, October 17, 2010 - early morning

She sits
across the table
a dividing surface,
captive to the distance

between
her now, and always
wondering if he knows
that her love falls towards

a break
in the original
heat, the fire, the burning
open of fear, that stole

her heart
and threatens sanity
as a weapon, a wound
to bleed out devotion

until
only calm regard rests
behind eyes once fitted
with a rose washed belief -

and the
table seems now, in the 
spell of this wound, to loom
at the cusp of never...

Friday, October 15, 2010 - afternoon

Sand, flies in the face
of it, and darkly shadowed
sideways, her eyes flit,
from place to space, emptied
of her hallowing,
of her holy moment,
of the exact instant, when
she forgot to differ
her eyes, and the pacing of them,
from her sight, from what she saw -
forgot to remember the end of childhood, where seamlessness fails,
and the adolescent picks at strings,
and figments, faltering along these
edges of experience where self and world confront
each other
with what has shattered,
and faltering, sand in her eyes, her face an it,
a thing in the mirror, seen,
an object, muddled by dust and dirt,
faltering,
she breaks even, only to
forget once more that her eyes
do not belong in the picture,
as she's seeing it...