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Circling the Square

the time has come!
the day is here!
this small myth of transition
unfolds before your eyes
& so the song begins!

i see the children of the sun & stars
wandering lost
beneath the dreaming moon
exiled by houses of venus & mars
wandering lost, singing a mournful tune

i see the children of the wishful night
warlocks & witches
of our youthful blood
their apple-dappled eyes
all burning bright (unknown by
adults) cloaked in rosy rood

but why are we condemning them to shame
by our judgments
of their dreams?
& why do we define them by our name
for culture
never knowing what it seems?

the wheel of seasons
turns on ever more
while we curse winters, new years come to fore

& so the song ends
for now (but
nothing ever really ends) & thus
this is to be continued…

The Surgical Theater

I’m going to take a deep breath.


…now I’m ready to talk about this.

Sort of.

Mostly. (Continued)

Broke My Neck

It was during the crimson nights of August last year when Pete Sergeant made the biggest mistake of his life. When he tells the story, he omits many of the details, because of embarrassment or pride or some such, which is understandable. But my version is the more accurate one, so that’s the one I’ll tell. (Continued)

Eye of Orion

with a smack of wonder & a crack of sorrow
we begin this day

our most ingenious universe
is the one where we exclaim “fuck!
this is amazing!”
cartoon galaxies spinning
out around the finite infinite

so crowded & yet
so alone
our hearts bursting with
kaleidoscopic roller coaster madness

an old man marries a young man
a woman bares her breasts to the world
& i feel so all alone at night
except when i don’t

no tranquility
no peace
but the exuberant breakdown of shadows & lies
a holy laugh in
the face of abject darkness

& when it all falls apart
what can you do
but cry & crack up?

am i right?

On the Mic

I was discussing poetry with a Twitter friend the other day, specifically how we’ve both performed our poetry in the past and are eager to do so again. We agreed that our poetry is better performed than just sitting on a page. In the past, I’ve attended some poetry readings and open mic nights, as well as listened to poets reading their work live. Some poets really get into the musicality of their work and perform very well. Others not so much, their reading sounding flat and, to my ear, no different than reading prose. (There are also poetry slams. I like poetry slams in theory, but the ones I’ve seen tend to blur together, with every poem performed by every writer the same way. I get bored quickly with that.)

My poetry has a number of different, diverse influences besides specific poets and poems. When it comes to performing it, I’m mostly influenced by the Dada and Surrealist movements, as well as postpunk and new wave music, stand-up comedy, and vaudeville. (Continued)

Precious Things

if i eat some apples & honey
will it dispel you from
the haunted house of my heart?
such spells we have invented

for to cast at midnight’s moon
before the birth of winter
& the rebirth of my fire
when i’m wandering under sea-goat stars

& if i stuff my mouth with precious things
& sew my lips with daisies
will you fade away
from my cinematic mind?

it’s such a question squeezed
from my lemon life
a mug of tea
all honeyed & haggard & hinted

at the peppermint mistiness
that looms like clouds behind
my eyes as i lay in darkness
trapped & wrapped in endless loops

so if i drown myself in cider
as i lay myself beside my
lonely pillow, cat curled quietly
watching over me

as i cast spells of desperation
sigils scrawled on my dumbstruck tongue

still haunted by the ghost of you