The book of Lord Schist
was on the short list
with his rock-solid verse
that shouldn' t be missed.
His writing is terse
and it comes with a twist
he gives all those who curse
a slab on the wrist.
i lay awake counting my years i have become an accountant of life segments when i walk in the forest around here i can leave the path and navigate by the sun walk on a plain in all directions this winter shall pass, and thinking of spring, i imagine being something wild, like a mother ...
The woman on the cardboard is fading.
Her elven hair has caught dust. A thousand squirrels run from underneath her.
The year is almost over. On the shelves: nylon socks. Now I am present here.
My groin is stationary at this orange table.
The machines are roaring. The microwave.
Coffee. The blinds. The cold air.
Freshener gets sprayed here with some frequency.
Parasite subdivide erudite
blundering souls with no rewards
the stillness of aging!
The rocky hills and mountains, like teeth outside of me
the hum of household machines
and me, still there, faithful to the secret
of being the present person who sat
there and felt that
Sex is a zombie with teeth made of glass I want to give all my time to an insect, who knows only one flower & makes love in it Shelter in the bulbous beauty of life itself away from the the carnivore machines Our time's a tigress jumping at the fat bars of her cage ...
You are on your own, you think yourself unreachable. Somewhere on the side of the light. All talk about giving yourself up into the world, as if you can be glorious that way, and you sit there, cold light in your face, half way to darkness You make the senses light, more of the world ...
A heavy summer's day: arms, legs scratched reaching farther, dropping them in a small bin, then a bigger bucket we hear birdsong and from their soggy field some cows stare at us. A sudden smile comes over me. I am glued into the scene, berries are raining in my bin and my mouth is sweet ...