BIGGER BLACKER DEATH

I CAN ONLY ASSUME

BOB KAUFMAN SWITCHED

TO ALL CAPS

TO SCARE AWAY
THE BURNING AMERICAN 

SON ALONE 

FOR ALL ETERNITY
AND RATTLE THE

BLEACHED BONES OF A POET

BLEEDING OUT IN 

POEM AFTER POEM

UNTIL HIS OATH 

OF SILENCE
BECAME PERMANENT. 

March

We are expectant 

mothers eagerly 

awaiting your delivery 

room to open 

mouth roar then 

in a yawning 

bore and
indiscriminately sprinkle
green

EVERYWHERE.

Matisse millions
of unblended strokes
unstruck matches
stiffly wait 

to be sun set 

afire. 

This Poem Is

a bridge to an island

inhabited by 

a single person

uncaged intimacy

holding light up 

to a place that has only 

existed in total darkness

unrecorded names

etched in stone;

marking graves I 

never dared to recall

or memorialize

a sacred sanctuary 

where I can run

into myself and discover 

we speak the same language 

in a crowded land

a rule-less expression

children know instinctually

but, adults carelessly shed;

forgetting that a captured 

imagination makes

our dreams real

an urgent call, 

an uncorked bottle,

a game of telephone 

where contact turns silence 

into a permanent 

and pertinent connection

effective action after

being idle for too long

expanding self 

into glorious multitudes 

a bomb 

shelter for one

that ensures my survival

should the world

come collapsing down 

around me

a microphone

at long last 

that no one 

can drown out

the actual sound of my voice. 

 

For Lira

Buttery coos;
hello birdie.

A voice

in your rosy

breast fine-scale

woos the new

day to peer

over the horizon

and stay

fixed upon

dueling syrinxes

in disbelief of

competing radiation

touching bare

sky first.

I don't believe in heaven,

only your

                                       g

                        n

         o

s

         o

                        n

                                       g

On Notice

I.

Aging 

is squatting

in a burned out building 

whose earthly real estate 

is worth more than 

the crumbling 

con

     s

     truc     tio

   n.

No 

one is coming

to rebuild 

us back to 

our former glory. 

II.

The eviction 

notice 

will be served 

without warning.

Surrounding 

landmarks will

evaporate to make 

room for the new.

Increasingly unfamiliar,

in just a few years,

we won't recognize 

our way back                                   home.

This is urban planning

of another kind.

Unkind.

III.

So busy 

becoming, that 

we forgot to 

notice we were 

all-ready 

history.

Lost in Layers

Tired stars 

burning crisply.

Peaceful corners

blown to   o       bli     vi                  on.

Hoping hopelessly,

but you know

things are slow

to change

Canvas stretch

-er pollack primed.

Pedantic notes,

eyes dripping

this is

my blood.

Your blood.

My blood.

Your blood.

It will be

over when 

its all-over. 

Popular Standard

                             PRESCRIPTIONS   

CANDY

CIGARS                                                      ICE

                                                                  time

NEWS PAPERS                                         CREAM

MAGAZINES

     Two                         bobbed socks

     ga-Zeldas               lean           

     While                      rising hemlines

      Play                       pleated peekaboo

      With                      freckled knees.

     Infinite                  adolescence.

    Possibility           isn’t about a

   Tomorrow.          It's about the

   perfect rag        curl and     reminding

the camera that “I’ll never     smile 

   Again” is          L more       than NCHE

      just a                      popular

      stand-                   ard.

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Pillowing (after)

Brush away

C lo u ds 

clinging to 

eyelashes that hover 

morning mist-like to a

sleeping valley yet 

to be touched 

by day. 

A jumbled geography,

only you know

which is empyreal sky 

and which is 

a sturdy line of shore.

I want to bury my

wandering fingers 

in cool soft dunes. 

I anxiously await 

sunrise to work its

wondrous

warm ing.

A Controlled Burning (before)

Surrender to ascending 

silver skin begging 

for a treasure seeking 

mouth to murmur 

from an open 

chest 

Choose me! Choose Me! 

A glistening linear pair, 

we are the dawn. 

In corpus linguistics.

A heaving collocation 

of successful communication, 

we are permanently 

fixed. 

Ahoy! Incandescent 

pulsing electricity

heats in 

a chorus of screaming 

ON. 

Fire swept.

We work to

extinguish the woe 

of the world and smolder

in paradise knowing 

You chose me! You Chose Me!

Ever Becoming

                           Unceasing 

concentric circles 

concise casting 

3 by 

3 by 

3. 

With no start there 

is no end. Unity

infinity a space 

between worlds ever 

                               becoming. 

A limitless horizon, 

                              center standing,

face the direction 

that calls you 

home.

New points 

on an ancient compass.

In-vocation with dis-missals

put past 

in ash 

and circulate 

Your path has no map

Purgatory: A Sears Parking Lot in Florida as a Children's Slumber Party Rages at Home

For Pop Pop
I went on one of his famously long walks.
For Peter
I dedicated a song before hundreds because the show must go on.
For Christopher
I read about Zen and Motorcycles but found neither God or speed.
For dad
I sobbed in rush hour traffic because my car was a womb in which I was trapped.

So mom where will it be?
You know I hate surprises.

See title for the answer.