Forthcoming Book...

For the last time...

NO RELATION!

Gun

POEM For The Reader-Ship

Poem

“There’s no one here. It’s like a museum.”

In empty space—a paradox;
your lips are not your own.

I have condemned the crowd;
a shard of pottery is halfway
done changing my life.

I am shattered—we are;
the tapestry moves through me.

I did not deface these statues of Hermes;
one person makes a crowd
I must not change my life.

Trompe l’oeil—scraps of sight;
press my face against the rock.

He marked the fall with his body;
take a corner of the blanket
and pull for feeling’s sake.

Words-not-words, lips-not-your-own.

A flamelet, a curvet, a rock.

I am Still "With-it"

QUARRY

There was nothing here but a pile of rocks.
Though she would rather lie down on this pile of rocks and die, she must go on.
There was a pile of rocks of all sizes.

He marked the spot with a pile of rocks; he blazed the two trees.

A large pile of rocks sit on the woodstove.
A pile of rocks has been placed in the middle of the road.
When they arrive on top, all they find is a pile of rocks.

Their own vile selves stood on a pile of rocks urging on their demon force.

But, like I told you, it's just a pile of rocks and gopher holes.
Be sure our feet are well shod and a good pile of rocks is at hand.
I could walk out from under the pile of rocks I wear as a hat.