Do not stop to pack bags


Roll on
roll off
loop this sound
in the open shut
infinite legato
blink your eyes
cardboard cutout
propped against the wall
you are hidden
can’t see it coming
go visible
no longer gaussian blurred
no longer concealed
aiming to be perfect
the pen hovers over you
multiple choice
moves on
always moving on
without anchor
launched frozen waste
blank space


I believe this was written while in Japan several years ago


We flick through the pages
All numbered wrong
Fold and unfold
Your pretty cranes
Tiny droplets
Whisk by on the window
Stream them fleet away
You hurry by
With yellow balloons
Even though it is raining
Sidewalk puddles reflect your face
Or the shadow of every other Monday
Carefully draw letters in each
Too-easy crossword
You are fighting back
Against the wind that screams
Between the skyscrapers
And the tousled cryptic pages
Someone once told you
‘life is not about flowers’
but just for today
you bend at the waist
to peer closer at them
that oil-tinted reflection in the puddle
goes on
in its hand a bunch
of yellow balloons

Random Thought #4628

It is strange that something as personal as writing can still feel so impersonal. That despite the perfect clarity of the creative outlet, there is still so much kept back, so much unsaid. Even here, I cannot say what I want to say; and therefore this is not, as I once thought it would be, a sort of therapy for me. It is a simple passing of the hours.



Again this has been posted here before, but I do like it. What is strange to me is that I have a memory attached to this piece, and someone else may read it and attach it to a different memory. Even though the words are the same…

somewhere in this layered
cubist collage of touch
it is possible
if one peers from the right angle
to separate
three bodies
pry apart the tessellating edges –
divide this flesh into separate forms
but for a moment
linked together
a lifeline drawn in blood
pencil vein
for a brief pulse
a quartz vibration
there is something akin to perfection
in this movement
then you fold back
into the mental space
the thoughts return
of how his body is such
styled and flowing
copperplate in the square-nibbed pen
and red ink so distinctive
those complex German adjectives
seem to ripple across him
he is a living calligraphy
and she so
clear and radiant
she bends light towards her
like glass
it follows the waveforms
of the boundaries between
her and not-her
of what is sadness to touch
and what is nothing
your body is so
covered with corrections
rewrites and editing marks
the edges all noise
ink bleeds into the white fibres
the shouting of the fights
that made a simple skin
into this memoir, battleground
each skip dull version of
scratches between the grooves of the record
he holds it up to the light to test if it is warped
tosses it away
this is something too far from perfect

Gone Away from Everything

We’re just dividing
Running down the street
The lyrics in my head
Falling through space like wingless doves
There is nothing to see here.

We’re just dividing
Cells without passion
Dyed crimson and sweating under glass
Filled with poison
There is nothing to see here.

The concerto cycles
Seem to slow each round
And the photo grains move across my eyes
In sharply pointed circles
There is nothing to see here.

Perhaps this is it
The fog descending
And the dust that waits in the wings
Dark as leaden velvet
There is nothing to see here.

Hole in the Ground

My bed is sharp-fitted into a corner
And I can trace the angle with my eyes
Around the skirting,
Following the trails of black on white dust
That never seem to lift,
The hairs jumping in the fan breeze
And the invisible poisons crawling creaking floorboards,
Always towards that corner.

This is not a good state of affairs,
Sleeping on a hardwood floor
So nothing can live under the bed,
So I can curl it up and shake it out each morning
Until it’s clean as a burnt hair.
But I can’t sleep,
Because of the mirrored walls,
Four sides all the same, reflecting to the corner,
The pictures of the steel-trap world outside
The unbeatable dust shuddering like monuments.