felix culpa...

The obduracy of ice
             grows bubbles for its crystal nest;
to the blind could be iron,
             & those wobbling spheres,
  plausibly foils of breath

from a body gone under,
              overwintering in understatement.
Falter of flow and flow of falter...
   How our languages freeze to each other.


:::Water accepts its ice-halter


  The way desire accepts
           the collar (zygotos, "yoke")
  of love it craved...

Poorly and pyrrhic
           the word's embrace

           of its nest


 
 
Advice

you should go watch family guy

you should try Abilify

you should send some of your poems
to a magazine you're really afraid of
 
you should go tuna-fishing

you should go far out to sea

see if your problems

follow the boat like the bipolar stalker seagull

who always shows up

oh what do i know

maybe you shouldn't listen to me

check out this parking ticket i just got

from fucking Stonehenge


 
 
 
Not a Valkyrie in Sight

oh it's a flower?

The conventions delightful
as language itself,

the eyes after life
or the cat smelling a book

by the window that was his.

The eyelet in the breeze

inside his apartment.
 
You were chosen for survival
in this funny form.

His trinkets. A baby.
A god. A Buddha
sits on a fuzzy toilet.

A toy. Dinosaur egg
atop the poems.

Things that will never decide

whether to be born or not.

But look.

The cat comes to you

climbs into you,

and reckons you

an okay place

to sleep.