Mr. Pound Comes Calling

I am in a library with wide and honest windows.
Pedestrians under inverted demispheres
splash by
and their toes shrivel in their shoes.



Two blue beads encapsulating liquid sleep
by three
and even flooded with this melatonin deluge
I gaze
at the moon’s opalescent zenith.

From 138 Miles Away

Little tinders, you still spark
from time to time,
and ignite heat
within my gnarled heart.


In the Spirit of Truth

I’m not that intelligent really
just an inane reactionary
looking over her shoulder
with little letters on her tongue
and escapism in her heart.


Treasure Hunting

I found myself
in a poem you wrote
little broken glimmers
in your prismic mirror.


Remember your fairytales

remember your fairytales
and bed-time myths
and mind-branded Bible verses
and dog-eared philosophies

with scribbles in the margins
in wayward spirals
and wondering styles

a new way to say
all that I could never

speak with a flaccid tongue.