Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Piggy Bank Heart

Everyday I put a few coins in its porcelain belly.
The rattle is an enchanting sound. Reminds me of
childhood and shaking a can with rocks inside.
Now the bank's so heavy it rings with every
shake. Oh! The dreams of wealth hidden from
all eyes. Shall I build a castle?

These days fill my heart with heavier coins.
A smile, laughter, or her voice fills it. My heart,
nearly full, swells with new treasure.
Riches that exceed all dreams ever minted.
My chest thunders with each beat.
Am I bursting with fool's gold?

Friday, May 25, 2007

Pet Thoughts

"Mental furniture gathers the most dust."

---Me, Tonight.



1. Laughter solicits our insides. The solicitation makes us regular.

2. I honestly believe Don Quixote is the best critique of Descartes'
"Cogito ergo sum".
3. Hoffman's novella, "Mademoiselle de Scudery", is an apology
for Jean Jacques Rousseau's influence on the French Revolution.
4. Every star is a Celestial Womb.
5. Science ends where Religion begins. (a joke?)
6. Consciousness has overtaken every stance on Ontology. There it fails.
7. Day and Night are an aspect of the mind/body problem.
8. Each word is placed with the rigor of a picky woman arranging the
furniture in her new living room for the fourth time. Le mot/ just.
9. The Quotidian messianism of modern politics begs the anger and
nominal disagreement that runs too deep for the shallowness. Not
one person is ever satisfied with the political realm. It is built to
displease. Hence its perennial appeal.
10. The Brain is a parasite with a stem(Spine) and tendrils(Nervous System)
that has found a host. So, please, do not talk to me about spirit or soul.


Sunday, May 13, 2007

Brushfire

"...the same wind which extinguishes a lamp will fan a fire..."
---Beaumarchais, The Barber of Seville.

Dreamless, stirred by the doleful call of mourning dove, 
I woke to an urn emptied world. 
A Bingo Parlor pall decked morn with a dirty shift.

My nose itched and seconded my lungs,
I coughed.
Above it all, perfectly circular,
waned a piss-orange Sun.

These skies, the likeness of Bellona's pyre littered vault,
"The smoke-kissed tombs of heroes"
as Lucan, the Matricide, sang.

Though glutted with ash,
day's sharpness stings.


Sunday, May 06, 2007

Maypole


Bellona rises
after another
radian of
Luna's cover

Blades bend to 
paring eyes,
she tills flesh 
for spoil.

Blood jets from
Maypole ribbons
lashing spring air.