ask not for whom the poem tolls

For surely it has no title. More poems from the house of (un)ideas, coming at you live, 24/7, large and in charge, direct and in effect, until the end of the world, or until lunch, which ever comes next! Zing!


untitled 4778


the waters of the dead
river
god
flow into
the veins
of
the young
and
make them mighty


I saw them sail
away
in
white vests and
clamor
letters
to their chests

lost
loves and
dear mothers
fathers in the basement
and
brothers or sisters
growing their hair

and the waters
are
bitter and have
mineral loose soot
tipping
head to heel
in
the bales and brush

and the
alligator
girls and skinny
bush
boys



untitled 4777


someone is awake
now

looking
at
a red lampshade
and
calling the minions
of
Avalon
to
their side

and
believe
in
magic
baby
I
have
lips

she was a siren
in
the buzz distance
black
night

a raven or a crow
in
the rafters underneath the moon
cawing



untitled 4776


the reason for the world
is
so men
and women in all kinds
can

remember what it is to
be
composed of light

and to shine;

of
all the sad memories
employed in
the manufacture

of a staircase

remember your
father
and his
hands as
they burned the wood



untitled 4775


San Antonio
was
made

by bored and sober gods

clearing
their

bookshelves of
texts they’d
accumulated as undergrads


and how they bit their
tongues
and
rained down the river
that

twirled and twirls;

smoke and ash
Mercado
shake

gringos and
delicate lapels

and
radio inlays
and
tattoo wrists



untitled 4774


writing an epistolary
reaction
to
her adverse means
of
climbing into
a bedroom window
while

wearing spoon tops on her sleeves

oh

my

goodness