Vamos

The signified has fallen off the page
and the signifier stands alone,
meek and purple.

Vanished,
the signifier

spins in an effort to create a circle–
a center of its own?
perhaps like a lost may fly
near the neon tubes,
oh what effort
to reach somewhere
and be seated.

Dr. Frankenstein

An odd silence takes hold of me
Odd
Because it lays with
Hands upon the throat,
Its own,
Dry and lacking
Despite the sound of soft
Rain dripping outside my window
along with the seismic smoke of civilization
Somewhere–
That has become nowhere

Oh how we work to fill the days
But today, the night,
stammers through the hand of
someone who wants to create a body
Of wor(k/d)
Under the hope of resurrection

Blindside

The man who was driving the car
Just kept looking at the road,
the footpath became a sound–
the omnipresent rain–
Against
The torn garments, red
Oh the red
And perhaps, a bit of orange
Of the foot
Trampl(ing)ed;
Is it sunset now?
The 9 to 6 ends.

Then the man
Like his car
Expanded
His arms shot out of his window
And his face broke the safety valves,
His torso burst up like a parade balloon
And he covered the whole wide city
Covered its eyes close
Where were the dead then?
You never had to see them
They came out like movie posters
and back in the cupboards they go
For a history man’s book that no one will read–
for another man cover your eyes with his body.

About a night

A night filling
outside the kitchen window
While the street is all empty
And the pup
that was yowling in the night
Has died upon the pavement

The automatic sound
Of the cycle
Spinning water
In my mother’s room
Slept a silent transition
And there came an awful silence
Inside my heart

The lights have gone off.

Bald Tree

I had grown up beside a bald tree. 

Whether be it the spring
or full moon,
the tree watched its days
in stillness of 
impotent life

And over it,
spirits shuffled in the night
when the yellow bulb of the house flickered
and mother would cry,
the pigeons were dead under the AC
and the dogs ran like wolves

The lights went out in the powerhouse
a beast shook the floor,
my mother hid under the pillows

but I remained still 
Very still,
like the bald tree.

Campfire

The light fell on us
and you noticed how     
I had dropped the eye/I
to see 
without a maze of mirrors

I used to write
"you and I"
[self-reference is for famous poets?]
with regard to 
a Pozzo and a Lucky,
but as the language decreed,
the twigs had snapped
into the baritone of the firewood. 

yet
I seem to think
there is a little bit of "we" 
about us
in the bite of the fire--
we are together in chaos,
if not order. 








Fruit Ninja

There are two knives
and there is a battle for the Lieutenant General.

From the oblivion of Plato’s roof
a golden fruit falls down
and out come the knives
for outcome of fight
and outcome of fight
decides the seed:
the book.

In the book,
the bloodshed of the other
knife has never mattered
In the book,
the meaning is owned
from temporary (matter)s.

It is so dual
my mind becomes its weapon,
because how do you preserve linearity
with multiplicity?
Every second, the knives sharpen.