The New Transcendence (audio only)
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Porous the punchline
spoken through wads
of lettuce at lunchtime
by the septuagenarian
vegetarian who has never
flashed a peace sign,
nor could distinguish it
from a Vulcan salute.
He’s not the font
of the jokes he paces
in front of the mirror—
even the one liners
are anonymous, traffic
conversation like air
or money. Not to him.
No sooner he hears one
he likes, he owns it.
Spins the extended bits
out with panache,
skips an extra extra
extra beat from the end,
bringing out in the eyes
and bellies of his morning
2014
(Haiku Erasure of Lord Byron's "Lines Inscribed Upon a Cup Formed from a Skull")
Start spirit; behold
the skull. A living head loved
earth. My bones resign
the worm, lips to hold
sparkling grape's slimy circle,
shape of reptile's food.
2012
One is never alone. Saltwater taffy colored beach blanket spread on a dirt outcropping pocked with movement. Pell-mell tunneling, black specks the specter of beard hairs swarm, disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course to forage along my shin, painting pathways with invisible pheromones that others take up in ceaseless streams. Ordered disarray, wingless expansionists form a colony mind, no sense of self outside the nest, expending summer to prepare for winter, droning on through midday heat. I watch, repose, alone.
2010