SONY DSC
SONY DSC
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the house in the country
smirk
through the barn window
dis integration
and isolation
oracle and spawn
oracle and spawn
swim fishies swim
swim for life, swim for love
upstream, where the river narrows
through the cold and vexing harrows
oracle and spawn, falcon and dove
swim fishies swim fishies swim
sybil and pythia descend from heaven
down the hill when sternly beckoned
not yet schooled in philosophy, philology
no letters acquired in transmutation
to merge, submerge, and re-emerge
perhaps.
As it has and as it will, past pretty pink nails
and pretty pink toes
unabated the river flows
innocence and waterfalls
swim
instinct and spontaneous urges
a last romance, hormonal surges
on gravel beds, in snow melt rivers
muffled by the bubble and the trickle
innocence and innocents
salmon swimming, salmon thrusting
while their weary bodies rusting
be still he says, and they comply
in pleistocene valleys, fall leaves rustling,
there under the high bridge, reluctantly trusting
innocence and innocents and screams
swim
swim fishies swim
swim fishies swim fishies swim
swim and swim and swim and swim and swim
and swim and swim.
restaura
no bud left behind
No bud left behind
– george stein
Maybe the Navigation was doomed from the start
It wasn’t as if there was an absence of signs
But things can always be taken two, three, or more ways
And then come the subtexts and permutations
Memory will inevitably smooth and polish
Things said and unsaid at the last supper
But there was a photo taken by the server
Among the many regrettable things people must do these days to earn a tip.
Now everything they touched and
Everything they fucked up, in their way
Will elicit waves that span the distance, pass
And come back again to spite
Some will surmise it was impetuous
Some will observe that it was avoidable
And most people won’t really care at all
Some of them will be right
pixelated sunrise
edge
Edge
By Sylvia Plath
The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
