And three years were not enough−

Ghosts whisper of memory: an overturned Jeep, broken glass still bearing etched letters

there, a “p” followed by numerals so faint the heart cannot feel their presence.

I followed you back, through quiet streets who, in faint black paint, speak:

I take my desires for reality because

I believe in the ( Read more... )

And yet, it was ghosts haunting the metro− hanging iron rails from wires in some perverse imitation of the sky’s fury

or simply for the sheer joy of protest (as they would have you believe.) And yet, under layers of wool you cannot see for yourself. Merely, then the representation

of that which has occurred: ink rubbing from outdated forms ( Read more... )

What disturbs me most is my inability to find happiness. How easy it is to fall into these wretched patterns of hatred and quickening heart-beat ( Read more... )

“Poets are useless.”

-H.D. The Walls Do Not Fall 8.6

What are we, then?

Ghosts through which clothes fall from slender frames.

Candles burnt in ochre and immortality.

What is the poet but relic of speech? Fermented canticle of wavering voice.

It was the evening when you returned, filled with the ( Read more... )

Mornings we (fall apart) walk blocks in a city spread-open behind every closed door. Get there. Get out. No. Movement across data-lines compounded by dripping candles and our own hubris-dreams.

Like waterfalls. Falling; kick dirt, kick against the pricks.

We're on the wall. My mind is made up but my body won't act without poison in the veins.

This city is sucking the life from me. Day after day the same sad faces, the same destitute pleas for anything resembling cigarettes and alcohol. The streets are dirty, and the buildings feel like rubble behind a mirage of car-exhaust and terror.

There are moments. I never thought I’d believe Worchester to be uplifting. These pass too quickly ( Read more... )

Craven lacks necessity, yet the word echoes through empty hallways which once filled with boxes of text. If there were more of my voice, things would feel different. Instead, I grasp at wisps of air from the mouths of others with whom I once shared a common purpose. This is no longer.

Without meaning these halls appear endless.

I am a statue come to ( Read more... )

Daresay I was happier drinking myself to sleep each night.

Believing that one is doing the right thing for the wrong reasons. I sit at home each night in a sleepy haze of two hours before night. There are small sounds: footsteps above, machines below and somewhere the cat is making a mess of things. Finding myself here is not actually here. Goggles ( Read more... )

Like mountains, things hardly ever shift. Instead, we look toward that which is there and cannot fathom that which has ceased to be. We can only move as quickly as the path allows, and the path winds toward some unknown goal.

(And this is what all those "poets" are missing.)

What language? You seek to make things new, but you succeed only in creating ( Read more... )

It is amazing how grand the fantasy of hope can become. The prospect of choice and the means by which we allow ourselves to delude ourselves into static each day ( Read more... )