Assembling, an Ars Poetica
I found my hand reaching
just to pick up a piece,
a smallest fragment,
a Lego-block,
a letter,
a word.
These bits are made
for building
any other usage
diminishes them
by rendering
sundering
waste.
But in practice they cling
one shape fitting another
accumulate,
communicate
person, place or thing
still action
And this is how it begins:
I reach for a letter
which grows with each click
to some message
constructed
to you.
Crying for Help as We Climb
Everything is fragile here,
with a ferocious frailty.
We are at the edge of death.
Perhaps not of life,
but some terrible end.
Precipiced here,
and teetering.
Could we use our limbs
to hold,
chances are we might survive.
But in the strangle
of their grasping
we will not last.
We ask what can be done,
send out echoes
with no return.
We’re alone here
on this craggy pivot,
next move yours
next move mine.
*
several boys are pissing in snow,
filling up these pages.
hieroglyphics left without measure,
only time.
age is discovered in caves,
paintings creating our dreams.
when you find this, digger,
seek what you need and let go.
there is nothing but long, sleepy shadows,
and
Howling is a buried feat
epigenetic
leaking everywhere
Howling is done with the body
in terror
a raging fear
imagine the reddened and purpling frame
a six-month-old baby left
naked on a hardwood floor
arching back
jerking tremors
piercing wail
flailing, throttling, choking at air
it will not stop
it is vulnerable.
Say the father rushes it
say he scoops it into his arms…
