“ . . . irony cannot break the wall

. . . building around . . . poem . . . ”                                                                                                           (Harold Norse)


Fermented phemes have grown culture

through aging

fragrance stronger still and stronger to come

but hasn’t yet.


Treasures of the night

have never been found

on ice.

* * *

To the streets filled up on sour

and acidic

quelled on probiotics


Bacteria grown against

God the virus.

* * *

Sewer grates leave menthol and regular packs

green and red

at the curve

of the corner


Back up Coke and Pepsi cans,

and the logos

all the sigils stamped

in coffee cup,

burger wrappers, empty chips, sweet still sleeping

in candy’s former sleeve.


But water

and what passes for water

where concrete, brick

and asphalt meet

slips through

with even

the most fickle poem.

* * *

“ . . . Does

Maybe not matter when maybe’s a landscape of untethered

starlight?”                                                                                                                           (Rowan Ricardo Phillips)

* * *

It’s all enjambment


All disjoint up up above

as together unbounded


and point




spray paint that won’t come loose

from walls

and monuments


where                   upturns

is a route

able to navigate

for food.

* * *

Words are black

and have running

in their blood

Drapetomania is the suffering

of text enslaved

to the page.

* * *

Captivity lets faith, hope

and charity


with visions of Zion

and all lands promised

to the passed over.

* * *

This world cannot be taken personally

* * *


does not make

digesting come

does not confirm

nutrients extracted

to destinations



Swallowed in sips

language has no

bottom of cup


So bloats

So bursts


So hyponatremia

of thoughts

first attacked, assaulted

then accepted.

* * *

Where can’t walls be built?

Gates, fences,

neighbors cutting off stanza from stanza


lose sight

of one                                   another


Disjoint occurs

nonsense teems

begins plans

against 5 or perhaps 6

senses –

sentimental, sensual,

sensible (?).


Springtime further blossoms

nature’s lines of defense,




Winter drops guard

lets jokes

slip through –

pushes them on blizzard



to bury

and give cabin fever

to homesick

broken lines


* * *

Just and just


not too much

* * *

Having lost vowels

over centuries


in clay and sand


Consciousness lost name

and rose as ash –

ashen rose

burnt out


spoken through brush

and to Jeanne D’Arc


and in caves


In places beyond and between opposite openings

side 1

side 2

left channel right channel


in need of visitors’

whispers / speaks / tolds / talks / yells /screams



How the machina comes

is on ears first

– save for Saul.

* * *

Life was begun by forgetting

this entrance.


Since then,

gifts  -if received-

are misconstrued


And grow into curses


* * *


1) to be easily crestfallen by outside forces upon the ego.



2) to be empathetic to the crestfallen outside of the ego.

* * *

“. . . silence crowns the song.”                                                                                                   (Ursula K. LeGuin)



One thought on “Around/Crown

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