Here's some of my poems for those of you who are interested. Feedback is naturally welcome. Email me at: analogkid@punk.net

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Mirror’s Elegy

The sequence of
the vertices

drain in the
dust of the present.

The shimmering
towers of

conception that declared
good

and the right
have been vacated

with
frenzied glee

by the light and shadow –
the faded white

phases of
compromise

are being glorified
by the uniformed

arbiters of marginal,
patternless leashes,

the liquid of perception –

while the mirrored
truth

splits a mercury
drop between us

and suspicions from haze
dreary with heat

hopes for order
in winter—

In winter the mirror
drowns itself

diving into mercury –

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Certain


Lines through four dimensions
Inevitably scrape the word from silence,

A history is born. A culture is contrived,
Pregnant with the blood of lost heroes,

And losing itself in virulence
Language breaks against language.

All roots are cleaved.
An architect is needed for any geography—

To tell us again that all men are mortal.
Mothers won't be satisfied, that logic will fail.

Tell us again about bills, snow, taxes, and laundry.
That sunlight will melt the earth with furious beauty.

That one creates, but two creates perspective,
Like the shadow of the solar wind.

At least give us sea level at the equator again,
That love will wax and wane.

Candles will expire, skepticism will be dogma,
And there will still be cheap beer and cigarettes.

----

Going Home

Get the baby count.
See who's in jail,
See who's out.

No wonder everyone's pregnant.
No wonder everyone's on speed
(Though I can't fathom why
You'd want to stay amped up
For nothingness).
And no wonder I'm a philosopher
(And maybe a poet too);
So much time
And so little to do.
One must entertain oneself, I guess.
I just decided/happened to think
Instead of tweak or fuck.

"Certain circles always cross."
-A saying I once heard.
No wonder everyone's so cross:
A circle's the same curve
Through and through and through and
Round and round and round.

Circling. . .

Hoping. . .


Waiting. . .


Praying. . .

For that gravity slingshot.

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