Sing to me, muse, of Boris the cosmo-
naut floating out there
in space all by his lonesome,
brittle radio crackle
his only companion.
Tell me how he finally found
his way home to cold Siberia
after ten years a-
drift among planets
he did not know the names of.
Archive for November, 2010
talking
talking to myself talking to myself talking to myself talking to someone else about the weather.
Its raining.
The mouth was open.
I walked into it because it was possible.
It was warm in there.
But it was just a lie.
Like the man who wanted to hold my hand on the park bench and raise my children.
The mouth closed and the teeth came down and I’m writing this letter to you in the dark. I hope there aren’t too many spelling mistakes. Please take care of gulliver. He can’t feed himself.
From Lucan’s Bellum
There was a forest, dark and dingy,
populated by freaky pagan statues
hacked out of tree trunks.
Other trees were left
intact but not the bodies
that hung on them.
This is the forest that Caesar went up against
with soldier arms wielding, madly striking
the axe against the butcher block.
