remember that imperfect poise
licked with flint and kerosene--
pattern splintered words and ashes,
and frozen in its minutes?

prone

i've witnessed the equator move on
and slip into its age
signals simply represented
to linger on a page
all stars align around us
and send us separate
in embers represented
modern lovers made unfit

holding

all moments move so
the memories go by--
i remember all things
no more.
new moments are borne when the soul expires
and crave more to build
an ego-- resold, unborn, made whole.
knowledge is death
and we seek to know--
finite blessings
not unseen
and mourned.
no coward knows death
that makes his own grave,
and envy in passion
is born.

born and old

how closely fits the mother's experience
yet shorn close and made tired
these empty walls make mold only
and become the homes we own

movement out

after ways have parted like the wings
of a dying fly
fanning
lost dolls in our blankets
who can't say a word,
fresh starts that feel familiar--
only bodies drying out on lines
guided from corner to corner of
a cold promenade--
a funeral process,
new makeshift make-believes moving
determinedly toward a magical ending.

sorry, we don't do "art"

disgrace

i have no use for a new machismo--
even packaged in paint and fishnet lace--
paradigmatically bound
and mesmerized, singing the refrain
in cheerstarved monotony.
ive seen women
and theyre not you--
no pain transcends your vision
but the prescription of self-satisfaction.
another victim of triumphalist imagery
joins the ranks of manicured wolves
marching lockstep to the
famous breeder's beat