Do you ever get that feeling
on a late spring day, at noon when
the sun bears down amongst vile blues
and undecided clouds, and yet

it’s night? When the high pollen count
and the feeling that everything
is just an instanciation
of old recycled days, textures

the graphic engine once used on
bricks, are now reused for the spilled
potatoes on the roundabout,
these things combine and you just feel

mad? And you aren’t sure you’ve ever
been awake? and the flagstones see
your shadow with an evident
disgust, fall upon them.

That its night with a veneer of day?
Your actions seem to multiply
without ending or beginning.
And sometimes it’s okay. Squirrels

pace around the garden of my
adolescent dreamscape, bouncing
off each other, the bird feeder
and their black eyes watch me, eating


I fear the dark, like anyone
that grows along the surface like
moss. Dear friend, I fear I am done
writing outside of fashion

and that is life. Lichen grows in
me, letting out its frost tendrils.
I am clean and clear throughout when
I have the better understood

moments. But to reach those I need
suns and locales I am far from.
I am out beyond the long range
of the beautiful. Juxtapose

this evening, alone, and unpained,
with an evening we knew by sea
where I had pain, yes, but also
peace. I live, now, to reach that peace.

Moss, you will note, is oft unsung.
Though it arrives first, and fastens
black rock for the later aeons
who soon forget it. I lie here

reaching for soft Erato’s hair,
or the bend of her ear, to breathe
whispers and promises of things
she wants me to do to her yet

New Year ’17

The tv counts down to a slight delay.
The sun’s condensing hammer
And the earth’s revolving bourse
Sinking us like concrete pillars
Into the wet earth, grey and flaking

For one several second of time,
Some billion times, this second
Takes its place amongst the others
Crumbling under our thoughts

Each swollen moment by these alchohol lives
Is chorused with hoarse voices;
Burn’s burning words cut them
With a fine layer of flake-gold, gathering in tear-ducts, perhaps
to fall, or not to fall, and rest there aching;

Perhaps the year rang loss
Echoing out through companionable air
Dulling and blunting,
Til the whole resembled the part.
Perhaps you were uncomfortable.

Now metal-faced staring at the past to forget
Though it may be argued
The latter year fared little pain
Beyond the tearings of new news-paper
To our routine streets at least.

Tonight some of us take upon ourselves
The wrongs and sorrows of the earth
As if they were our flesh and blood
And they are.

So too are the vast outnumbering joys
from time to time to time each year which guide us
And a creeping enjoyment
I permit you to dwell on them.

And we can muddle
Til the morning, and the year fall full of clothes
onto the bed and black out