When I was sentient, I knew a man
Whose hobby was to build things out of cards:
At least I think. For my attention span
Is very short, and doubtful in regards
To any but the widest boulevards
That truth or lone veracity might take
And subject to drive off, without a brake

At any rate: the guy. His steady hand
Was such that I admired, in the way
He could produce, from what his mind had planned,
Facsimiles of Paris or Marseilles,
Combining games of chance and macrame.
A balancing, precarious and wise
Of miracles set up before our eyes.

the night divides

the night divides into an "us" and "them" --

and lost is individual and twice
the argument both pointless and ad rem

and through the {that feels good} and {oh that's nice}
is something rather 

                    vague and 


upon the shallow moorings of the dawn --

       the night divides into a "here" and


Rhyme Royal

To waste one’s time on something like rhyme royal:
It hardly seems a wise thing, nowadays —
For why to purblind history be loyal
When modern times lie tangled in a maze,
And ancient forms be so far out of phase?

(It hardly seems the proper thing to do,
  And sets a barrier twixt me and you –)

For what is “form” but artifice, and cant?
There is no clamor in the reading space
For words in blocks that ought to be aslant,
Or sentences less meaning and more pace,
That do not know, or keep, their proper place.

(Observatories, though, may ancient be
  And still have much to say to you and me)

The Separated Know

The view from out of place.

It’s part of what the separated know:
The outside in, the view from out of place –
No matter who you are, or where you go,
The rules will change depending on your face,
Your height, your weight, your gender or your race,
As those who would discard you make their way
And paint with ugly rust our real today

the color, swirling

“… the mass-produced hysteria of violence …”

the color, swirling: chaos as an infant –
the mass-produced hysteria of violence —
abaft the swarth of what’s gone in an instant,
we stand astride – aside? – and keep our silence

as fairylands go dark, or grow more distant.
we give ourselves, in joy, as cannon fodder:
the color, swirling, more blood in the water

In Place

We spend our lifetimes thus.

In place, we spend our lifetimes full of days
And think the world encompassed by our eyes:
The field we see, the only grass we graze –
Familiar and secure, without surprise.
Upon which every hope and comfort lies –
And lies, indeed, though beautiful they be
Do not encompass all humanity.

And oft, we will look down on other fields
As poor reflections of the truth we know:
Although we’ve fed from one small sort of yields
And slumbered when we might have chanced to go
And taste new grass, wherever that might grow.
But still we stay in place, and never roam,
And boast about the greener grass of home.

    But yet — a lifetime spent is not enough
    To know a state, a city, or a town:
    Perhaps I am mistaken in this stuff,
    In thinking those who stay must be held down.
    To seek to know oneself, and not renown,
    Might be to view the truth’s lone lovely face:
    And may be seen by those who’ve stayed in place.

To Naught

Time spent chasing shadows.

I’ve seen the truth that’s found in love’s intent;
I’ve known how light the load can be to care —
And yet I see the time I have misspent
And squandered chasing shadows that weren’t there.
The love I kept that I was meant to share –
The offers spurned till I was more at ease —
That now have turned to naught but memories