Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Piggy Bank Heart

To A




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 rumbles with
every shake. The dreams of wealth hidden from
all eyes. Shall I build a castle?

These days fill my heart with a heavier coin.
A smile, laughter, or her voice fills it. My heart,
nearly full, swells with new treasure.
Riches that outrun any dream ever minted.
My chest thunders with every 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 lone call of mourning dove, 
I rose to an urn emptied world. I crossed the threshold.
A Bingo Parlor pall decked morn with a dirty shift.

My nose itched and seconded my lungs,
I coughed.
Above it all, perfectly circular,
blazed 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.

Has the meteor hit?
Destined to smother us
with eternal peace...
Though glutted with ash,
this day is too bright.


Sunday, May 06, 2007

Maypole



Bellona
awakes
after another
radian of
Luna's cover

Gold reigns
over eyes
Mindful

Her
husbandry
tills flesh
for
radiance

and

Blood streams
where Maypole
streamers
dance noiseless
in the spring
breeze.