Poem Achieves Closure

as if the relationship stood
for some abstract cost—you & Poem
tongue & lobe low vibrations
back seat the language steamy
thick with sweet ambiguity

he swears it is more than just physical

Poem was caught in the end
unawares—a rogue
wave or two coincidental
illnesses causing
the whole to tilt
this way

he knows how to tie
one on, create the escape
hatchery of ideas—a fraying
of your patience, a dithering
near the end, looking for conclusive
clues in the glove compartment, but not quite--
then there is a ‘pop’ air pressure
drop and Poem
is already

Poem and the Movement of Thoughts

Not like some baroque landscape or group
of seven epiphany, thoughts parasitic and un-
profound. Poem pulls them together like a
catalogue entry, an eBay ad for directions to
some imaginary city with wide avenues and no
traffic. At the post office, there is posted a ‘most
wanted’ poster for a perfect word, its history and
sound pattern. The path of flight is imaginary and
inwardly is the only direction. Buttons and thimbles,
a letter unsent, three inkless pens, a compilation CD
sent late for his birthday; in ten years temperatures
might begin to sky-rocket. The lens changes the thing
is no longer. Etymology and physiology are the same. Or looping.
Reconsidering the word “baroque.” Ah, and in that other city,
the air is clear and deep. Cogito joins you for a walk.

the tax man

--a RRSP for Ken

he has it with him, always
the records kept unerringly
sharp, cohesive, like a tight pact,
a spiral, sparing the stark days
doled out dumb and exact

the marriage was a lead divisible
number carried over to the thousands
and scaled in degrees;
a cache of time lost, prepaid

his charm swarmed over understood
and he opened the door to zero
and if it was, why

the history of language as an email subject heading

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Poem Reconsiders the Female Muse

Poem is unamused; she
is a writer, unused, un-engendered,
interdependent, and she shrugs
this off.

Poetry is a truck she learns to drive
differently, somewhere else,
and then leaves it to the overgrowth.

‘Meaning’ she said, meaning
it, and not the way you think, but
closer, and less esoteric, though
that’s not the word she would use.

She realizes, if she only inspires,
she expires.

Poem’s muse is a juncture between.
She considers this point (a wave,
a particle) and muses on
the instability. She works
at a university but does not
love it. Poem’s closure
is an alternative physiology
sensing itself for the first time.

Poem Looks for Poetic Impetus

In his writing, he waits
for inspiration, waiting
for his writing to begin, starting
with the impetus, the spark that’s
not an easy metaphor, the story that’s
not an easy way out, a futurity
that’s not now.

(Perhaps he could create a narrative
presence, a persona, and call him
“Poem” . . . no that would be
too easy)

The word sits squat
immovable, innate, not an impetus
at all and yet . . .
after a span,
it wavers, there is movement,
the word twists in an indivisible
wind, and the poem begins
by describing its own
disability . . .

(Poem could draw on nostalgia,
an interminable debt, a torrid
addiction; nostalgia hopes
for use, wishes Poem
would fall back into his
unsteady hands.)

But Poem is the word he is
waiting for, his own name, waiting
for the word to distinguish itself
from other words, Poem
waits for his own separation
from the world, waits
to launch from the page,
begins to enjoy waiting . . .