First Stanza

First stanza
is something about desire.

Why fear the dreadful words

never meant for a poem.

A yawning accommodates
the souls dirty mark.

In the distance

I see an assembly.
And I know that house quite well-
the dynastic of jumble and maladroit.

The blueprint is love-

whose erection is a creeper-
with rungs made

of evanescent sluices

And night pines

the dominance of grief’s

habitual stair-case.

And all and all

   and all.

The friendliest vein

of stratum
is a cool and brightless

shattering:

This is not me!
This is not me!
Not what I am!

Not...

The Books

The books
are no longer held
with staples or tape.

Gospel today

fills the soul
like glue

from a Wonder Bread bag.

Like the photography of some vital

motif.

A passing of traitor -

disappearing the early morning

dew.

The gelatin silver print blisters
with foresight.

A reflex assumption.

One perilous lineage

hooked by clairvoyant creations-
only to defecate the denial of truth:

The dying beast is your child,
your demon,
 your God.