“The hero adventures out of the land we know into darkness; there accomplishes his adventure or again is simply lost to us, imprisoned, or in danger; and his return is described as a coming back out of that yonder. Nevertheless—and here is a great key to the understanding of myth and symbol—the two kingdoms are actually one. The realm of the gods is a forgotten dimension of the world we know. And the exploration of that dimension, either willingly or unwillingly, is the whole sense of the deed of the hero.”
— Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces
7:34 pm • 3 April 2014 • 5 notes
Red moon, low moon, first of the night,
doorway through windows to free waves,
creating the wind across glass dancing
a storm to thought. Always watching, silent
kind constant where you sleep on this
mourning of night. To a black screen
we share and hoping the life we save
may be our own at the end of a wash cycle.
To slow down time, reflecting machines,
is never a measure of complete justice or
satisfaction. Always surprises; bells and
alarms that do an invisible jingle and laughs
when you seem put up for a time: here’s
the next row of stairs. Hearings, hearings,
and curly chestnut hair that turns a dream
into a tornado of looks. Some painting I left
in the closet when everything was stolen by
children on the sidewalks and I forgot your face.
The window warms, breath by breath. Noise
rises a rusty old highway does the Mobius twirl.
Dawn remembers mercy and fatigue as coffee
cups, voices receding into a cliff of cleft palates.
Give me to climb a few last miles and put a card
board easel up again. Eyes fixed to each other,
wild animals that purr when it shines. Can you?
What arrives as prayers and whispers are sent
to brown bags and uniforms black kites let go
to drift until the atmosphere’s right to come down.
11:08 am • 3 April 2014 • 7 notes
What Time Told Me Once
Lying here, again and now, the heap of locks
draped in our sunset color. Time changed more
than usual, laissez-faire appeal of a decade lost,
fires criminal found in chests. Oh how to give up
the ghosts for a genuine apology and find Apollo’s
moment to say some fading thing about what
a white tree looks like through a slat in a graveyard
cage(among the naked day that comes and comes
and seems not to change). What are the these numbers
and words beside our hair but transported guilt?
A goddess come down from the hills and showed
me all the hands we need to clutch close our sense.
(The joy I told of my body is the joy of my mind found
through songs and dogs: epigraph for a saint’s sigh.
Come all! We are welcome. The room, soft as paint,
invites us to stay and become a beech wood bed.)
It’s a different song between the cars on this slow
collapsed highway, cities an anthill of rotting lips.
How we yearn to free of these human bodies but
can’t quite let go. Not yet. Climb to the top of bunkers,
there is warm plastic comfort for these lights that blink.
Or never move to Washington with the bright kids,
knowing what decisions are a hawk or a handsaw.
The air becomes a purple of nostalgia and then,
the red light above my tower drones itself to sleep
for a few saccharine minutes to dance and glimmer.
I see the kindness in these men’s beards, trying
to comb it out, and through the wet night it has gathered
in dimly lit rooms some silhouette thrones made of these:
a clammy smile with the times shared pirouetting through
this dark maze of mirrors made of attachment to a parent,
games we played when eyes were not concrete, reflections
that warped windows bedraggle the day, bedraggle
the heart antiqued to resemble a quiet lump of pastry.
Tingling down my arm at the speed of crow’s feet,
I’ll see through this plastered edifice to justice a way
forward for all to celebrate their sameness before
white-robed marble tables. It’s a word, rightly lifted,
that takes us to face home. It’s that flashlight, dull
vibrating wavelength, that runs when needed. Running
to show styrofoam strength between yellow teeth.
1:17 pm • 31 March 2014 • 9 notes
Business Men Floating in Trenchcoats
Business Men Floating in Trenchcoats
We all wear black regardless the season
or mood. Burgundy on the house-heads,
burgundy in the eyesockets. A panoply
of working charades. Or the shirt collars
caught between two train stations, knowing
and feeling, destinations far from home. Side
ways, lethargic and rising toward wherever a
bone strikes a hard surface. Look out the window
and break the glass, you might see something.
i gave my congestion to slate colored townhouses.
But why in the distance? I prefer up front multiplicity
or duplicity or both really. We lay between two tubes,
maybe tunnels, that meet as the sky has fallen.
Goddamnit where are the umbrellas? And a cloud,
a cloud, my conscience for one more cloud. Imagine
the inside of it, all dusty and moldy and full of humans
and smells. Windows at the horizon at last. A wooden
cabin where I may lay my body to a music of sorrow
to make joy into singing hands. It’s not a promise,
it’s a wave, a rusty turning wheel, a woman living on
government assistance. The chimneys creek in
winter but thank God we got through this tilting
contraption: earth or time? My only question is
where will they go when the sun has run out of
steam and all our children have gone to bed with
their phones tucked under their pillows murmuring.
Hope, I guess. Hope that regressing follows patterns
of dress codes established years ago by the elite
barbarians. I love them so though I will never be one.
Hope that rests in hats and white oxfords and black ties.
9:02 am • 19 February 2014 • 20 notes
Chapter 1 (Untitled)
And in my dream I saw an ashen halo of dark grey in the distance, the darkest grey one might perceive before it could be called black. Arrayed about the halo were smaller clouds, circular, that seemed to form another circle of nimbus sulfur. Then I saw how there were more, many more, appearing closer as I studied the hypnotic pulsing of these shadowy clouds whose outline shimmered with a red electric sheen.
As they grew closer it became clear these were not clouds. Beneath all of them, of which I had counted nine, was a geyser of soot spewing so furiously that one could scarcely see its origin: the very earth itself cracked open and releasing the trapped rancor of so many ages.
Soon, I felt a distinct rumbling and the ground growing soft and uneven. A fissure appeared not but one hundred yards from where I stood among a gang of neighbors observing this most unnatural phenomenon. The black smoke poured forth. There was hardly time to fathom as the white glittered molten rock, gorgeous and bright red, spread at an alarming pace from the gaping hole where once a street had been paved. I stood there for a moment, at once terrified and in awe of the power being shown to me, then dashed to pick up my companion - a dog - and we ran towards the hills.
In my childhood I never understood how runners managed to maintain sprints for medium distance races like the 800 meter or 1600 meter dash. Now I knew. You simply ran as hard as you could for as long as possible, past pain, past weakness, past vomiting, past the blinding light in your mind. You ran. And you never looked back to watch the others being consuming, their legs trapped like quicksand in the fiery river that surrounded them and slowly pulled them down until their body and the red river became one. You didn’t listen for the final shouts for God, at the Devil, or whatever was to blame for such a fate to pass. All that was left was running and pushing aside anything or anyone that stood in your way.
That was how it was in the first days of the event. Yet little did we know, those black smoke rings were only the first wave of warm darkness to arrive, a cleansing fire designed to root out the weak, before the real trials began for those of us unfortunate enough to still be breathing.
8:04 am • 19 February 2014 • 2 notes
Stimulant Shunts and a Downer
The biopsychology socializes knived sifts
that are a brown brewery smoke. Many tolls
along a sword-bridge of clinking: we parted
an element in three and made some real light.
Let’s go remorse and sober. I can’t cry or ever
did. The jumpsuits follow you long after laundry’s
taken to the taken (no matter the color), all
teeth. Had to be dropped, the fear in festives.
Our marrow snaps, stands to clap trauma,
an insurance glitch to gutters. How do we
pay a head tax? Stones replacing youth,
bodies that lay and lay past a greying tear.
What does the mother-tree say of eking
playwrights? Stimulant shunts and a downer
breeze. My senses are all together at last.
We make plans and send prayers into the ground.
Finally, there are dug houses made of dirty linen
and glass cares. Spirals of skeletal singing.
Born smitten with overlooked keys and shaking
heads. More stories, more doors, more movement
now it starts in the cracks: people and lives
we don’t or catch to know. There is a solid
Church of Feeling, an underground hearth
I lost in my hands, clapping, and found air.
9:26 pm • 13 February 2014 • 22 notes
“…Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. —Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.”
— Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, Act III, Scene i
(may they all be remembered for each and everyone)
12:23 am • 25 December 2013 • 8 notes
One Form Rising
Bugs in my fruit egg salad Sarah Spann please
come back to me oh sister i missed you
in the maze of concentric rectangular capsules
ingested daily via microbial defects and catscans
in Roy’s head the only thing that matters is
satisfaction of the self satisfied turned round on one
another like a merry go round ferris wheel shaped eyed
glancing shortly at my astonished expression at the strength
of the moonlight during daylight hours because time is
circular pie graphs surrounded by orbiting singular
moments like thisthisthis forcefully smashed windows
into the future divide yourself by twelve and the
square root will always be Mu and when we
choose that is the time that parallelity
and shifting continuums meditate in the sun meshing
skin with skin and the grafting hooks of
rumbling destiny precluded by the tangential hypothesis
in tree sap and heart sinew bound like interwoven
isle lets swimming in the sea as it is Welcoming
the Bride of the Sabbbath Makes Two Turn Like
One form rising out of mist and silence holding torches
and darkness as the balloon cascades into whiteness in
the backdrop alight to the paperclip bundles stored
deep in recesses cracked and craven alike the everything
pours down faucets of rainrain the stream below
rippling figures circumscribed pis and beauties that
glowed in the Walden moonlight ushering in our
insignificant indolence the shifting sideways suits
disenchanting my favorite television show questioning
the breadth and depth of air exemplified by
rocking horse dreams and the slow regression of time.
12:11 am • 16 December 2013 • 8 notes
the white pad warms an aching of hours
mopped through a same floor. jail didn’t
quite make a fire into cherries that flutter
into months without words, or, making slats
on a house flannery built in south georgia.
we all miss her redemptive salary bailed wafers.
i took one in my cup and sometimes think
of rivers and animals and a shortfall of rain.
those fingernails i clipped and kept in the trunk
the fingers until they were so sore i remembered them.
1:29 am • 15 December 2013 • 26 notes
Do I still exist if I lack the language to express my being?
Can a feeling of thought or thought of feeling manifest without words?
1:23 pm • 12 December 2013 • 6 notes
The crowd of electronic paupers,
to the living, deeper than a muddy
escape prison. Death is a better
prayer as the knife returned.
No Vedic sweater life sings
Praise! We waste runs
deep, lie that they forged,
resurrection into day. There
are doves, no torch of noise,
the live breath today again.
You, a sacrifice to palm leaves,
painted through savage obligations.
Born opaline dust kilned blood
shakes before the cliff and
blooms. It rises, some god,
time looking at the ground;
a store of dream will fire
our arrives. Beyond our canopies,
yet it cusped the wings.
12:35 pm • 25 October 2013 • 41 notes
A Dog’s Memory
The intellectuals talk the red
phosphorescence now of now:
I can’t believe. The notion that
concretes a square ephemera
exploding our becks. Separating
a vernacular, the way we look into
futures and see a perfection of
broken feathers. Clasp alive the
motion depth who remembers
fathers and brothers, the sister
we let go because. Flannels of the
day, a wrapper tonight protrudes
from crisis masked as opportunity.
How many thousands have come!
We echo forth and reach, stretching
the skin of knowing, a cleaved
Freudian essay that shadows sand
dune buggies. Shoulder stratagems
whiteness allows has catacombed
these hairs like the first people, like
you, that were always right. Always
wore by bright screens, a velour
touch that entropy finds wondrous.
My delight lies through digging fields
and filling holes with cement: our years
convinced themselves they weren’t
like all the others. A theater built by
malnourished children without belief.
We sit and we laugh while everything
wraps around blue jean smiles, sarcasm,
and a day carried by a dog’s memory.
12:17 pm • 24 October 2013 • 61 notes
A Cool Ride Through Country
All the movement has compounded
into a relocated trunk of grief, we
reaches through memory to see sub
urban something that steals into stars.
I can’t smoke this day into dust nor
a translucent death. This consciousness,
a vague apparatus, will transpose onto a
fundamental pavement that sings tire marks.
Debt’s canceled quiet like a mother’s un
speakable horror at the calamity that dishes
remind her of South Carolina. The image
of father reflected young flesh, a raft into
the present that floats as a black and white
echo of pulsing, forever lifted negative
energy fields. A wormhole for iffy seasons.
As we approach, words press a rusted
grill I gave the homeless. What sacrifice
for living, my own life, is it near? I ask
some book oracle who raises a dank cavern
and rocks and hugs my ignorance like
change. What perfunctory silence clamors
for more… a felicitous bout that means
an end to these shocks that strip malls pain
a glowing, gasping moment. There is our
compelling feeling, a cool ride through county.
11:23 am • 23 October 2013 • 11 notes
To Drive the Chariot Past
When will the Messiah arrive? We’ve waited
two-thousand years! or at least a weekend. Come
frothing from the orchard, the mountain red, the pit
place you lay. I’ll pick your dates, we’ll carry the wicker,
but why? The eagles, at the eyes, and they are hungry,
Make it a crow. Make it a beech tree swaying as
the poplar recedes into decay. Such sweet fruit
awaiting awaits. A wait is all we ask, to end. When
the lights glow blue in the sky, not the street. As
make the ballerina dance again or consume her soul
The debt canceled itself: the debt of the forgotten gift.
Which father shall I pray? To make a clay of stammered
days. To make a precipice of ash and skin. I clean our
teeth only to find the dark spots that science cannot
rend or unrend, they simply stay like a reminder of
Create the magic, don’t hold it for peasants, even the
rich starve of breath. Remove the I from crucify as
Judith Butler would excommunicate her divinity from
her personal cult of being. It is I, a ghost vapor of
calumny; it is washing away of forgetting, it is an oak
I’ve enabled righteous into knee-knocking and a bark
from down this orange-lit road. A truth kneaded in a
granite sign-post: it has arrived. But what arriving
necklace adorned ‘til midnight blows September into
a wake? Time circles itself until lines appear through
A cigarette regretting its filter, can the forest of musk
move for a fire’s sake? Siri says, not so seriously as
I toss her to the rainbow gutter with a faith in mud.
Tell me your travels, then I’ll hold the cup – dirty as
it seems. My kingdom for a lawyer without a cusped
Unbeing will make a whole of the particle board, I
slept at last. What is a day? Fit in a word or two,
perhaps, or nothing else besides a breeze and a fling
of daylight. I heard of someone dying and I know
here are birthday’s I’ve been missing since the resurrection
Forgave me. Things come fast and slow, the band’s
width of switching opinions. Not liking acronyms
these days: pathologized as Emerson showed how.
Life set to a paint that never settles for seconds.
Hunger or thirst who clairvoyance whispered, thus
A police officer and badge speaks to students and
it makes me difficult in viewing, reminds of home;
reminders of a morning I took a start to new the
difference rested in geometry. A hexagonal apparatus
containing levers within the pulleys of stigma. Formal
Reflects a numbered tag full of promises I made to
my ghost, that is, the shaded lines of who I might be
in someone else’s name (hoping fulfilling doesn’t resonate
or rattle the same as completion). Some dissociative
trait we picked up through highway living, my arms
From the general apparatus of flesh and sensations:
this homunculus of ether beating to think too much
isopropyl solution making. Baptize me in a sterile
cause. But the stinging is never nothing, nor enough.
The feeling, ruing the center of all things corporeal,
This city of too much: aching noise from a blessed limb.
A great fire engulfs the towering jail hidden deep wood.
I cannot begin to sweat because of the heat. Suffering
clowns and mollusks abated through a constant gaze past
a pink sun, hiding. There are lawns golden green in the
Light that echoes as forever. Have you smoked all your
azaleas and lilies for the year? The wind surely slowly
will caress the beech trees, or maybe a young, small willow.
And that’s like the son of Mary exhorting us to know, eyes
cry that paradise is come. An auburn butterfly saunters
The gutter strewn with hot night’s bliss. Artificial? Smart
observations note divine, not divinity. All I want is to
carry this pale to an earth well and make a deposit not
knowing how or why. Aberrant breaths between the
mulched blades of victory - living I had a dream where it
A fresh asphalt hill wavering, transfigured to find
more hills, steeper, the heat pungent; where they were going,
and how they wove like a stranger’s smile. All I want for this
birthed day: a lower denominator and tomorrow new. On the
twenty-eighth day – extinction. Rewound the string, an ecstatic
This grim battalion of colors; this mirage painted
to the sea. What it is that this is to become? What is
it that we are to see? Come down from the red rock,
find a shadow hidden and hold it. It is a new year,
a new time for all the causes. Perpetuating clasped
The amplitude of your spiritual. The thing breaks
and it starts winding down. Star-fire coalesced in grief
and patience. An Apollonian creed to drive the chariot
past the moon and into the wood. This is not a place not
yet awake. Yet, my bell jar sounds, we hear their cries and
7:45 am • 28 September 2013 • 8 notes