A Month of Saturdays

Within a month of Saturdays
Along the walks of glee,
She set her pastel colors off
To find inerrancy.

She chalked one up for whimsy,
And another one for blues,
In gardens she drew on the ground
And on the avenues.

The birds and clouds all envied her
I know, I saw her there —
A month of Saturdays in one
With angels in

Her hair

In the fading light of tomorrow…

In the fading light of tomorrow,
Every wish gets weighed with great precision

On the edge of the lonely island,
Where the river fluxes into indecision

And I wander along the cliffside,
Hoping to find a sign to use, or borrow —

But there’s nothing but gold, and rhythm,
In the fading light of what’s left of one


leveraged mockery

the last lone bird at sunset come
to pick whatever’s left or right
upon the winter docking bay,
the guiding edge of light and night —

this age is likely better now:
we thrive on leveraged mockery
and straggle on to pick our line
toward prison or

the lottery

iced teleology

for something like a purpose
she set out, wondering —
a doe among
the buzzards and the wolves

i met her on the corner of
eleventh and erasure —
the one who gives
can still be one who culls

for she’d learned from the undergrowth,
a rustle in the Vedas,
the cold of iron
too tight to her skin

and i had learned from atrophy,
and some from Paul McCartney,
but not enough for her
to let me


multicolored venom

multicolored venom
pouring everywhere and anywhere;
the quicksand drip that holds you in its snare,
your beads and denim –

psychedelic malice
marble overdrive and underrun:
the mortal day, the everlasting fun,
corona borealis –

sepsis and thalidomide,
darkness on the edge of town,
danger, joy, and habit going down,

but we can say

we tried