The Psychics


I left myself off at America, where the psychics

Told me to go. I let off there. My inner ear blazed

On and on, as those shapes all slid away. Voices

Dispersed, on the hump of a camel I ride, and the

 

Names of those trees elude. Water was my guide,

Smearing my white face into focus. The red maps

Of pianos, the auger, the sunset of that tiny chemist.

The lapse of a maiden aunt, the rain about to choke

 

You with its prowess. I like the way this river

Records what it no longer even is, the past now, the

Truths balling up like yarn. That branch turns in

The light like our fellows, who shuffle off and go

 

To a dance. The inner reaches of projection, the

Cars that blend with the noise, as surprised as we were.

 

 

Signs and More


I am well again! The ripped apart molecules

Of, hello? Hello! (The Vienna Boys’ Choir I

Believe). My noontime cigarette, the old

Skeletons rattling their cages. The lithesome

 

Woman, your complete love of damage &

Smoke, like making love while running a

Step away. A statement you can never retract:

I love. White sand into green, the problematic

 

Ocean spreads itself out. We take it in stride,

And we do our best. My desire is ‘damaged’.

The caress of dolphins underneath the glowing

Waves, the subpoenas of aluminum are un-

 

Settling. Windshield distorted with heavy

Rains, the lane is ending, but don’t ever merge.

 

Photograph © KJ Photographie

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The Tree Farm