Ars Poetica

Some questions should not be vocalized, for doing so makes grave both the uncertainty and the livelihood of those who pursue them.

The doors swing open.  Our necks betray a reckless nature, a drunken clamor and the place we’d rather be.

So it comes to whittling.  And she is sometimes a flood.  ‘They say everything can be replaced.  They say every distance is not near.’

I have for some time been wishing a new name.  A face isn’t enough.  A child paddling a stick in any river.  The manner is of bedsores, listless.

How much can health hold out?  I’d think a great deal less, were waiting not the game.  The paper trailing.  Steel yourself.

The world is getting heavier.  The fat of the land.  The cream and the crops.  We are sweet hearts, making more.  The air is getting harder.

But we carry on our backs when the words we haven’t finished chewing submit and sift in murk fit for the silt of our furthest back water.  

That is, we’re muddied by the tongue.  I didn’t think such swells were real.  Though bones and flesh have made the way, still I knock on wood.

Yesterday I saw a dog on the subway, encircled and uncurious.  There is happiness yet in the cakes.  What’s the point of poetry?  Love your master.  Steal your own.