were it vocal

the wording makes it real

-one –

were it vocal


the internet cannot see


cost report that bastard squirrel

i want it’s mother’s stem



the talking is the ass-end of air


come up to me in the street


this all yours is


tamper with my seal

so that I may be returneth

to the shelves

among the cobbledust

a picaresque


were it vocal

the locale

of the yokel

might just resonate strongly

enough to shake

the pen from


her teeth

the gold-tip




poisoning the


of her teeth

the tips

the tips

the tips


of her thighs

lend butter to the outsourced moon

I’m a full plate of neptune tonight, darling

-don’t touch me-

-watch me-



were it vocal, the

light in her



bring about the


might bring about a rupture

in a schismatic


of dramatic


the coconut, shy,

lays on the bed

affeared of it’s own nakedness


were it vocal


were it vocal


were it vocal

the screen

could copulate with the jinxing of my ears

to produce a grey movement that backed

up unto itself

when the barometer needle fell


I’m shattered


were it vocal

my shatter might be dust

might be all true all

might be the zenith of

might be the blue core

might be undulating within

might be ripped across

might be a tackling racist, chants the backwoods

might be hanging (A)

might be hung (B)

might be hanged (C)

might be handed (D)

might be hand (e)


were it vocal

On Time

(for A.K. Ramanujan)

Art-full; the clock

stands on hind


& stands, staunchly –

its hands for feet

watches; the

tiny clamour

of so many fingers

to tinker soft

shifts of silver

filigree and

ginger, over

beside yet another

task that

could be

complete –

we think we lie


in the cold sun

of late-winter

mornings –

the earth tilted

to a toughened

trilby-economic, fawning;

mesmeric; phosphorescent

pouring patters play over

the tableaux of

a heartbroken

pigeon who

took that mortal

dive –

a Banquo maybe

(perhaps nothing more),

the bird atop that

weather-vane –

a gift to the

outgoing thane,

trembles slightly…

and there no excuse for the blueing in her eyes

nor the ways in which seeds move overland

nor the cupping motion we sense as unconditional


nor the reaching cool side of the blanket

nor the burning of those first weeks –

that hang

heavy in the


as carnations.

We’re up to the door

and a young man is

being held behind all the

greenery – there are


on the floor around

him – a mandala –

a heavy watch rests on his wrist

as a meteorite,

a trail of blood, strides

the flecked street.

My eyes are in his hands;

I blink and his fingernails listen –

my ears ache in the air and 2 seconds

stand near the heater,


A cube of fog is delivered

from offstage right,

and her thumbs catch

mine from the

clutches of the

small dust eddies circling


even ancient words

in the face of so many faces

and thrice that

of hands

can catch






On Time