It seems, now,

that I understand the plight

of poor old Sisyphus.

Young, Buried

Suddenly awake under such constant wisteria:

I feel effervescent, now, and inchoate,

and aloud bless, “By and large, I am shapeless.

So neatly formed, though, whirred and amassed,

out of the maw: purged.”

I, knock-kneed, trod and pant and, flippantly, diffuse.

Down deep, into the dirt and musk, I surrender.

Into what, now, shall I bloom?

Sometimes I hear guns

and wish to taste them.

If she were to speak,
and it found a written form,
her words would be Courier.
For her sharp serifs
endow within me
an odd and jagged inflammation.
And her coos belittle
the awe-stricken soul
I claim to hold, immorally,
somewhere beside
my angry, poetic heart.
If it exists in any such capacity.
She ferries my
incensed happiness
onward to some other
garden, wherein
I am fertilized beyond
able gluttony.
I am full of her
and I have not even a taste.
Are there notes of ink to her?
Would she cleanse this palate embittered?
I possess, nearly, the mind to inquire.

When will I learn to ash,

as burdened by flame?

To, with discreet poise,

shed the flotsam

that slinks under my tow?

As ragweed I have slept,

massive-like, beneath such mindful,

mayoral, dutiful, jimson.

Yet, do I, 

and with what taste,

flourish beyond my ambrosia?

Not with so deep

this budgeted austerity.

Such rigor, mind I,

has been attained:

standing naked in the 

driest of swells

Might an oiling

break these fittings?

To splash among

softer nettles?

Might I cascade amok?

To indicate revival?

Suffer lesser aches?


Might I ash

and shed

and bend?

Might I arrange

my own being?

I have hauntings.

I have embers.

I now seek lighter commons.

Might I be obliged?

How terrible a sight:

the morning sun.

So much to see

that will soon be broken.

Derelict insides

may make egregious claims out

of pure mania. 

I remember an essence.

It may have been an aura.

It was tawny

and drifted

somewhere just above 

the golden prisms

that marked your flesh.

I say these things now

because you visited me.

In one of those dreams

one wishes to rip into reality

I felt our unity once again.

It was lonely when my eyes

developed fissures

and I felt the beat of 

sunlight upon them.

You were not there.

That’s okay.

I think you’re happy.

And so I came to realize

that no utterance

can emancipate

some shadows.

And it is oft

the beautiful dreams

that are the most tragic.

Streaming mist-cosmos,

crashing blissful their by-ways,

seeking fresh earthquakes.