Wednesday, February 28, 2007

The hair problem

In oscillating
between the
afterglow of dusk
and the afternoon
left behind, the girl
on the swing told me
that we were like
random lengths
of falling hair. Each
littered on beds and dirt
and plastic bags.
Each different as they fall.
I watched her being
consumed, disappearing,
and turning red.
Closing eyes saying
Humanity should have
been a flimsy comb-over.
The last flailing hair
are better remembered.

Monday, February 26, 2007

spatial recurrence of remorse

the littlespacesbetween
godandmearestuffed
bythebrownhardscrabbleofdirt.

on which are tilled
dying patches of land
on infinitesimal farms;
seeded, ploughed and
harvested by armies of
desire giving in.

i wait outside,
in my dejavu, a
l o n g
way from home.
counting the seconds
that must be pass before
time can coagulate into
the recent scar.

Band-aid farms born of

d
e
s
i
r
e

d

r

i n

k

of what is left of me.

Saturday, February 03, 2007

Motivation

On glycerined
pages, smeared
in their sinfulness
I glanced at
humanity.
Looked eye
to flesh, at
the abyss they
had dug on the
craters of souls.