>improv for Roget’s International, sixth edition; 12212010723

>

languish                                              there’s a willful poem
pine                                              once written
droop                                              cast up from some growth
flag                                              cracking the dry soil despite
wilt                                              itself it is no organic spice
fade                                              emerging jointed death
wither                                              crows from source
diminish                                              rolling like the shadow beside
dry up                                              a pitted pinless hand grenade
retrograde                                              and it’s no wonderful loud thing
languish                                              the poem whittles
pine                                              into grain which it’s dull-eyed author cannot
droop                                              a declarative statement breaches the water 
flag                                              at the top of its arc flattens out — pin-straight
wilt                                              a moment and just a moment a clearing
fade                                              of the mind — wipes white the wash
wither                                              horizon weak and sight from where
diminish                                               every illness wills its end 
dry up                                              though many good things never began
retrograde                                              under gaze of mind’s accomplished rend.

>[improv for sarah, 12192010927] or [rudhira okha cardame; blood, gauche and light on glass, 3 x 4"]

>

there are the old tropes
the reaper swinging his grim scowl
a distant, longing victim
chained to posts and deep mercy
vultures contemplating victimhood
their flapping contrapositives 
their lack of teeth does not them lack
but to snuff the fire, the impulse toward flame
even in the prolonged suffering of birth
ignites in a quick jerk and flags between
breaths. they’re abundant and filthy
proud deniers, dirty foxhole diggers 
want what they want and what do they want.

>split infinity

>The woman is above me and her body chants
Colloid mane washes across my face
Honey drips, undresses, digs her heels into my tongue
My fingers buried in her unexpected softness, trace
adipose at the shoulders, pure white grace
the bell of silence struck and sung
but colorless, maybe real never rung.

[posted:12012010-edit1:12032010]
[edit2:12042010-edit3:12052010]
[edit4:12092010-edit5:12192010]

(i just can’t fiddle with the diction
anymore it’s time to move on.)