peak the hollow

the fastest way to expel--
always uncover--
is to look at the surfaces of three hundred
and sixty
the limestone
the mirrors
the brass
but you insist on
a gerbil wheel
or the cyclone
to play cards
and with weaponry
i shake
admire
the mintyness
of it
the way
what animals
would theorize
then you embellish
a spoke
or rim
to hymnals
and forgetting the war

Ballet of Small Rooms

cauliflower grows in the stratosphere
it’s a different story up there
it’s too bright for someone disinterested
in the appetite of a youngster
who does not yet have a vendetta
against blue
not yet concerned about facts
like the way rocks change currents in a river
or where fiddlers
or which species of tree are unnamed
what city is october
how many grains of salt to turn water to brine
how many colonies have picked up and left
look
at the lemon pulp
suspended in water
a ballet of small rooms in a glass
how much would you charge to strain
algae from a swamp of this volume

purple stain

every dwelling belonging to
other people appears appealing
words precede peculiarity

she sits on a suburban box
reads a September gale
on the architecture on
every grave and every
other chimney
a page

he
writes
under
no
other
silence

we
listen
over

Omit

My mode of life
does not appear
Pertinent
Lonesome
Afraid
Curious
Of charitable purpose
A child
I maintain
Pardon
The books
Undertaken
To answer
Egotism
I
Omit
I got some
It
Some confined
Admit sincerity
To students
Kindred
Skilled
Defined
Outward crowd

Blue Trophy

shine
my unboxed champion middleweight
all the glory days preserved
amplified
rectified all right
steel ligaments
and lugged joints
resurrected
several cylinders
wood cut
rectangular blocks
doubled for symmetry
in a temporary purgatory
of wrecked geometry

with glue and plans
a chassis of possibility
steps and hatches
sealed the armature
of supports and circles
set in design
no simple engine

Frankincense with Metal

one hand can
reign and not govern
two hands
embody their arms
inhabit a hollow
beyond a cobalt melody
by a tin
over the atlantic
knit as blue
twinkling saxophone
sack another drunk
on the bump shack
hauling military maracas
ravishing a melody
whose veins do not govern
the madhatter
who offers a whistle
a swig off his rope
you sit on inflated roots
of crinkled brown paper
the frayed wires
forces as red
as rebel
will govern
the clang
bled by metal

lia's perhaps hand and my pointed toes

lia's perhaps hand and my pointed toes, originally uploaded by enemytree.

photos are like perhaps hands. perhaps cameras hold pointed toes and a momentary pose. ee cummings posed a question as a statement. i held an ever changing crop. all the infinite angles--do they allow us to capture a lot? a little perhaps.