After all the circles in your inferno
all the accusations before the docket
the nails through the wrist
the droughts of vinegar and arsenic
"For the public good"
the first stone thrown a thousand times
in the batting cage of our home
Here is a peddler on my kitchen floor,
A madman with a broken back. He'll barter
Bits of detritus, my own black spoor
My crumbs and soily nickels. Greedy martyr,
Miser, opportunist. At a touch
He flies away like leaves, takes up his pack,
You casual letter m. You bit of news,
We want to have our fingers smudged with you,
To flip and press them into that white page,
That high-borne cloud. We finger-paint, contain
The soul of flight in split parabolas,
Gray bands of smoke are still alive.
CNN revisits ash. I don't resist
the black remote that
whispered waking in my ear.
Picnic benches near the towers
are shards of limbs.
Steel we thought we were we weren't.
First waters of old liberties
see seaweed strangling a pearl.
Continuing to write away from the war and the violence of humans and
machines, constructing this issue meant to me that I would search for
poems that glorified the sensual and psychic spaces of the heart. Don't
get me wrong. These are ways away from the war and its devilish
consequences. Deconstructions of psychic, social, and emotional spaces,
love, lust, desire, loss, absence: these all play a part in the spring
issue of Maverick.
to speak is impossible
when the words come articulated through a dead mouth
mouth of air that speaks in whispers
skull opened by streams of another world, skull of water that
looks at the
sea and dead speaks: its dead voice observes what's around