September 2015

nature lover
with the windows closed
the screensaver

copulanded genitivals

orgaseismic knee-tremblor

climacteric change

À rebours
old fossils heaped up
on hot coals
dark energy
summing it all up
the name grasped at
an atheorist
strings it along
there! hear it!
line breaks voicing the void
within me
petal fall
I too am becoming
not being
without refuge
the other you are
is still me
for H. Gene Murtha (4th September)
final straw
we draw the dark side
of the moon

a free-floating comma eats roots and leaves

seminal night . . .
salmon thrash upriver
by the stars
eluding the names
they bear
my ancestors' stars
of paper-mâché dreams
of family
paper-mâché dreams
of belonging
your silence
after the universe
no longer could

An Anniversary Tribute
(remembering Svetlana Marisova)


silent bird,
shadows of your voice
stir the void
valley mist—
all the shapes words make
of light
empty now
the presence that once was
nothing but you
twilight sky—
the withdrawal 
of your veil
and still waning
crescent moon
wisp by wick
a candle
nameless moon—
spring light flitters
the shadows
after life
slow deep September
breaks the soil


speak memory!
the hush of first love
awaits your words
will thy will
also be droned in heaven
as it is on earth?
another piece—
in matching body parts
she finds her child
the love of the many
in a mass grave
big brother seizes
his cue
words of war . . .
a prayer wheel 
a revolution

recalling 9/11, drone bombings, Viet Nam, Hiroshima, Pukerangiora .........

dead silence . . .
and still the circus
goes on
spring gloom . . .
the seeds once sown
still to die
(for Alan Summers on his birthday)
on waking
a candlelit drama
at wits' end
descendants of our now 
sift through debris
windowed moon:
with two of everything
the pauper's thief
homeless sky—
a shore-borne child dies
to free will
crescent moon—
intelligence sources
swap kill lists
the clarity!
dawn awakening
a nick in time
avant-garde dogs my words neither gnawed back to bare bones

post-literate decapitalation of conSumerian scripts

spring or autumn?
two thirds marked out now
the beast in me

in its wings
already the butterfly's

lengthening days—
childhood shadows stretch
farther away
water sound
without frog
without pond
in spring rain
the cries of the slain
also rise
dark energy—
in summing it all up
the words I cling to
spring rain
wiping agape eyes
free from tears
parting shot
sunlight glances off
the coffin's sheen