wb :

ok, so i lied. i'm secretly a modernist.

-~-

s is for cereal
are we not all serious?
there is no moon in the sky that is black
jack

son of the man
mannequin kin puppet's peer and wigstand's child
you joke! but dance a little jig for us
and while the us away
while the us of a
it does not behind to compute.

but bitten by welve tmosquitae

unlikely that i am joyce bysshe or poland
twelve again computes me.

yes, the taste of autumn is in the sakura
and who can resist- the teeming diaspora?
sit beneath the tree
watching cherry blossoms fall
floating to the sky

zen is ahead and the past is zen;

it is not defiled to speak of it

when another choking on the smog of air
the oxygen that feeds into despair
not burning anymore but eating now
no radiant face or furrowed brow
it leaves a skull to look ahead
at our unsleeping dead
insisting that they live
what gives?

on the bridge
another earth crashes;
the supports groan with the mouths of a million greeks
if it had breasts to beat then
there would be no equal in expression
naked, oiled, it is ready
then the spear lunges and it falls.

sometimes i wonder
many times i have died
but this is no claim over my life
and the cherry blossom falls
but the trees stand. not seeing,
the king of gods hangs as all about him
pink bloombuds drift
has he wisdom now?

Labels: poetry