A New Way To Speak

Fumble the vowels around your tongue and
jumble your jowls, fill your lung with sibilance and
silence and let sweet hisses stir from the
soft sawgrass of the
Some sounds seek meaning and some sounds are meaning;
some sounds lay lodged within the heart,
syllables like Clacton-spears,
forgotten but discrete,
buried in the muck of millennia,
words that
can still wound,
words that
can still kill.

Life By Rote

The Earth will spin and with it, us,
and all our daily chores,
will add to the weight, will add to the pull
of this spinning orb.
The Earth will spin and signal day;
and night, and mark the time we spent away,
and the hours spent toiling or –
worse –
not toiling, the hours spent
with hungering tongues, the hours spent
wishing for toil, the life we
have learned to live by rote,
the life we have fallen into.


The wind whips through the beaten woods and
does not earn a dime.
The stars have worked without a wage since
the start of time.
The bears, they feast until they plump,
yet their portfolios are lean.
The fish do not charge different rates
depending on the stream.
It is Us, only Us, or perhaps rather We,
who dare to print a paltry price
on the pulp of a tree.

Microcosms (and dandruff)

Within the least lay lesser, still
slighter repetitons;
infinitesmal patterns.
Is any particle of a rose not a rose?
is the dandruff on the floor, the bedsheet,
is this anything other than me?
And is a single letter,
devoid of context, rhyme, function,
is a single letter not mere fine-tuned dandruff,
shaped by, and shed from,
an endless sea of scalps?

Six thousand, seven hundred, sixty six years

when last your light had graced our skies
you looked at us. You heaved your sighs
at pains, and pangs, and scrabbling hands,
as we, whip-bled, marched across the sands
and burned, and put some towns to axe,
and discovered great and graver acts.

and now, so many years have passed
the deserts grown and some made glass;
when you turn your eye to me,
do you still sigh at what you see?



The bones will never truly settle the
foul earth will spit them up, brown and black and
broken into slighter splinters; again, the bones will
never be buried, only swallowed
for a moment until
choking, choking,
the world purples at the cheeks, gasping,
hacking again until it spits and
floods us all in convulsion


My brain is beat with flukes and foam and
dreams of the sea,
and dreams of home,
and lancing at leviathans while
wondering, wondering:
Is all the world a whittler?
Whittling whales from every wild wood,
and whiter whales from wilder ivory?
Oh, whittler, take your stabs and strokes,
for creation is a painful thing for the created
and perhaps equally for the creator.

Warp And Woof

The world is all meridians,
woven latitudes and longitudes,
and power surges through them all.
Life is ups and downs, lefts and rights,
Raging storms and wilting calms,
The interpolation of sorrow and succor.
And this is good,
And this is good,
for an easy life  is a thread that frays at slightest force,
but this mesh? This warp and woof?
It will survive shipwrecks and sicknesses.