September 2015

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
afterlife

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
afterbirth—
an ancient darkness
stirs the earth
haiku poet:
a low carbon worker
at the coal-face
of being
on earth too
nullified human
remains
by moon mist
the black swan song sung
in some lake
gentle breeze—
a mist shadow drifts
across her veil
plum tree,
hold back with me
the passing day
waxing moonlight—
a spring concupiscence
invades the garden
spring seedlings—
with my ancestors
in the rain
spring rain now
and at the hour
when it falls
writers' block
no longer can they read
my Facebook posts
event horizon—
all the places
I am not
haiku party—
a frog distances itself
from its past
this body
how it breaks down
in the moon
just five senses—
how much more of spring
can I take in?
just for now
a cloud against blue 
is all that is
lips slip
the petal brush
of spring 
phone glow
her words become
static
once blossoms 
fall plumb darkening
the garden
and you, child
never to come past
your becoming
and you, child
never to come past
your becoming