swollen verses of the tediously bombast— the intarsia of agitprop, the germane rouse; which pretends at dignity yet without the telic substance of coherence are "pompous words walking aimlessly through the landscape in search of an idea." this was said of Warren Harding, a president who would not be known were not the effigy of …
immiscible
forced homogeneity would seem self evident evil the natural existence of these being caste; but emulsion birthed margarine distilled the photograph hinting necessity of not sameness but effort (adj): not capable of being dissolved within another substance
mountains of Arafat
I've never read The Davinci Code though I understand its appeal; often, we like to imagine things are not as we've been told even as we prefer to understand them as we've always understood. But I must caution, of the pursuit of truth in lies of those things that have always been (quietly) understood not …
a poem
like a tree upon the waters whose shadow is cast before the reeds the damp sod hardens into cool, red clay beneath its roots and moss, settling upon the wise tree bark as though an armor— I stand with the cattails; amongst the blue grass, the dandelions, the whistling ferns winds meandering past in pursuit …
Hesed
when I lay down to sleep how should I know that I will wake? and yet, I believe so never have I feared that strange darkness the circus of arcane dreams; how jealous I am of my sleeping self, that I should trust the world to be as it was when I left it I …
I-20
Cigar smoke, static from Atlanta, pollen; just blowing in the wind. on the road to Duluth, 1:30pm.
a quandary of memory
There is a Darwish poem about a place that becomes itself retrospectively, quietly where its image, its likeness in memory is stronger than the place itself. Dialectics, maybe a penchant for nostalgia but then, aren't myths our interpretation of history? Home isn't a landline the ocean wasn't blue, a gist is more than the sum …
a writer’s desk
A page barren of thought I could but hardly say, the lantern's wick has hardened the crowd is gone away shivering leaflets fallen on frozen beds of hay ideas congealed in bottled ink I stand before the fray— of cold, plagerized pages in 21st century gray of renditions and other nonsense that shall never see …
not a sonnet no. ii
the beat of a heart knocking against the door a game, we play. come in, the voice says, light with laughter the drum, drum of some new adventure. come in, again, distant and moving i thought i should follow and so thinking, i tried "ours are the moments I play in the dark" -Lorde
The-Bleu-Bivouac 