"Newel"

hauling our loss
hauling our loss
over
warring dualities
unfenestrated by
days

triphibian bitemeter
scoriac spoodge
Hollerith cardshark jump'd
when the camps were liberated
colossal desert snail chrome amethyst trail

the uncreated night opens
ibrik of iron
voice
texture of curb concrete
Himalayan tea steeping
pencil drawing of Tarkus
you can't see the way
gilt-edged journal
blurry at the margins
a mild wind

bend your neck to drink from the overfull cup
invisible
in the dawn hour
frosted coffee cake
shadow of the spires
nothing moving
collected from the dead man's hutch
Hojicha
Samurai werewolf
bronze triceratops

auburn hills of Saturn

nil sirocco
trireme · whisper
spiralling sunward
spill through the spectrum
clouds at the horizon massing
red blue green as i sped by
in an instant of time
the hedge dull with tire dust
faint smell on the air of something dead
paint my car with Cthulhu
my short cut
totally blocked now
long ago pool
spools forth the lightning
what would you do
what would you do
toward the cool darkness
but the tumult in some vast, waterless desert
mercilessly just
stirring and whispering together
a long smear of light bounded
by a pelagic wind
among the unweeded tombstones
a tortured understanding
the landfill knows

my edge of iron uncertainty
rolling outages · purge
the surging wabe


Poem.


"He was not a very intelligent man, nor was he very cultured, but he had an extraordinarily kindly disposition; and I was grateful to him for the friendly way in which he had said 'The moon is wonderful this evening,' because I felt that by these words he had meant to express to me his sympathy with the Italian people in their misfortunes, sufferings and humiliations. I would have liked to say 'Thank you' to him, but I was afraid that he would not have understood why I was saying 'Thank you.' I would have liked to shake hands with him across the table, and say to him: 'Yes. the Italians' true country is the moon--it is our only country now.' But I was afraid that the other officers who were sitting around our table--all except Jack--would not have appreciated the meaning of my words. They were splendid fellows--honest, simple, genuine, as only Americans can be; but they were convinced that I, like all Europeans, had the bad habit of putting a hidden significance into every word I uttered, and I was afriad that they would have sought in my words a different meaning from the true one." --Curzio Malaparte, Skin (1952)

After Weightlessness.


The loneliest planet.


Kisses sweeter than Wine.