Monday, December 15, 2008


It begins as a creaking, a sort of ache


The skyline bristles, the sky behind is red


The gate will not rest

Grave men, who when near death, see with a sharper light

The magic of the persistent question

I am not sure if I'm still here

The without eye, the tongue within

There are walls that stand and walls that will crumble

Why the giraffe? Why the elephant?

He pulls at the cloth and cups spill

Sucking the decayed breasts of death

There are leaves on the water, but the water is pink

He spreads his knees, he laughs

OK, let's go!

The soot that falls from dead cold chimneys

The ship of fools is in dock

Falling and Flying are the same: only the landing is different

My father in my mirror

Black book, blank book, blank look

A Hanging

Whose woods are these?


A confederacy of the delusional


I me a traveler, a simple soul, and quiet


That Easter I was late leaving, things to tidy up



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