Fri May 09, 2008

The Possessive

Mine.

Thine for thy—
My love is a puck
in thine eye—

Ye for you—
Twas all for ye that ours was pluck
—ye plucky I.

Were his and hers upon thine?
Thy were his, were hers, were me,
O mine.

The money is mine.
My double respells in the blink
of a my.

He is a friend of ours. He is a friend
of I.

Each & other—
My düpel brother—
Someone else’s apostrophe high.

Hers was not a happy lot. Hers was
far better.

Thu May 08, 2008

Song of the Silverback

Once was king of all that tinkles, all that
springs from silver shy.

Silver ball, silver hovel.
Silver ting on silver cone.

Grunt through silver hunt and forest.
Forest good: hunted twice.

Now me polish with silver heave
silver pencils, picking nougat
of silver-eye.

Leaves crackle—
make bells whisper.

Silver crispies
on me silver thigh.

Once was white, white and conic,
now marooned by smiley hi.

No regrets.
Me, economist.

Land of scrape and lucky jaw:

still be sliver,
still be live.

Wed May 07, 2008

Confessions of the Letter M

As a baby, by the stump, I buttered the brown knot.
Sipping bouillon, on the supple, I tippled with the thought.
At the place, on the hour, I did nurse him through the spot.

Tue May 06, 2008

So Much Minerva

Then, the Strand They strew’d with all the goods he had, bestow’d By the renown’d
Phæacians, since he show’d So much Minerua.
                                            —Chapman’s Homer: The Odyssey XIII. 179



Landed, as if jettisoned to this
moist crotch of habitat.

Hurled, I’m sure,
by some enabling fiction.
The bald pate bristled and
the thing fell apart.

They gave me a bowl and a knife to stir humanity’s discontent.
A dun dish to decant your desire.
In this life, said Daddy, you won’t feel so pretty.
Then left me to assume
some form or swan.

As if
I needed pyres by the river
and the slashed throat of swine. Ululating youths
leaving pies on my breast.

Do you see how I learnt to feel
next to nothing?

Mon May 05, 2008

Bupleurum Wandering Chamber

In the chamber of the wanderers, I was fourth in line.
Between the vial and the snow and the boot-print in the snow.
Smart, how they placed me in the double-walled chamber.
Smart, how this wood marks nothing like privacy.

Face in the cradle, I awake from a fallow dream.
Once was butcher paper waxing aqueous rhythm.
Someone sunk a hole where my face should have been.
Meanwhile in the chamber, boot-steps shuffle in.

Young doctor from Guangdong pulls rods from my back.
Shuts them in a red can labeled liberation.
His hands, two valves siphoning my bliss.
Once again, I shall drool empathically supine.

In the wandering of the chamber at the stroke of the sign.