permanently uninked

like the wanderer at carnival
who walks on fair ground

or wistfully lists toward carousel,

I remain unlinked and pale—

a cave-dweller
deprived of predator and prey.

your lies (cyclic)

your lies multiply;
they are insistent and perfect.

they burst out of the earth,
newborn—not shy

they never apologise,

yet in my insect lifespan,
there is no emptiness, no proof

only allegory
which uplifts your lies to truth.

what happened to your passport? pichku materinu

Preamble: Switzerland has an army; I am reminded of that every time I use my cunning little knife.

Your Tibetan thesaurus
cannot render the texture of emptiness.

Flirting with you, however,
under a Turtle-Foot rain

reminds me of Yugoslavia
and its hearty boatloads
of mismatched fishermen.

Is homeland lost without its name?

believe me not

suddenly in the land
of make me leave
things turned very strange:

the evil queen
became handmaiden, and her athletic
daughters  went lame.

the terrorist and the barbarian

all things must end,
laments the shy barbarian

but the terrorist has no interest
in extraneous cunt or hostage

He is enthralled with fisherman
who catches, keeps or releases

again and again. such perfection.

In the room beyond the room,
the post-chamber to hell,
truth and secrets are tangled
in a tulle and palaver ball

and I am chastely reminded:

the only difference between true
and false lies is the attention to detail.

the laundress and the ballerina (an allegory of sorts)

to escape  jet radiation,
the laundress leapt into a distressed basket,
raised her soapy arms

and did what she did best—flounder.

her sister failed to blunder.
Upon a reddened piroutte,
she burst a throbbing bunion.

And now they fumble
side by side
pressing, folding, en pointe exquise
to bleach charred guillotines.

Lake Slaughter And The Guest House

lakehouse, in this case,
is a misnomer, a bedraggled
canoe dragged from shore

or

a defunct hotel
where ghosts mimic guests,
anaemic, thin as flute

glasses. chandeliers threaten
to loosen; crystal garters
topple  but it is

the swan song
in the slaughterhouse
that apricots your ears and roses your lips

white flushed with a perfect
floral blemish.

I set sail, past tense, on the wing-span
of a continent, and I repeat the same act
day in, night out:

look back, execute, look back, sit tight

1001 decapitated birds

"squalor," crows crack
accusation as though it were bubble gum.

Dollybirds fly south
in the cold, hard shuck of November,
grim until they remember

their limbs are not programmed
for relocation.

It's all about
the quality of interrogation
and those subtle, fatal instruments.

Boston Proper

Anne, my Brahmin,
I hope you don't
run marathons.

The Secret Life of Lake Champlain

each childhood
ensnares former tenants
in a landscape so foreign
and dangerous

there is no plan
to forsake.

contrivance

wrenched
this way and that
technology is never
an acrobat

false longing
strung high
on improvised wires

allows luxurious failure
to follow

Fox Song In April

and so this fourth month
trots along, fine
auburn fox
silver lined

dragged by its neck
skinned merciless

lean and whipped April song.

City Lights

 

the lookout sparkles,

gemstones strung on a spider web

and tossed delicate

toward our harbour.

 

memory blinks

like electricity

in a Montreal stone house

 

whilst power lines

collapse under frost.

 

it happens

again and again. no number

of edits can reclaim

 

that first moment

of fascination when you hold

the final mirror the only other way.

Letter From Palinurus

like a Sōseki path
the letter from Palinurus arrives.

my toe-hold
upon ice-floe
celebrates en pointe

marrow throbs and thaws

transplanted blossoms
from Tokyo
giggle in a schoolgirl row

there is a way
to lead or to follow
there is a way
at last.

no concept of concept

it's just what
the other keeper said:

you have no concept
of concept, and that holds
you adrift.

an owner cannot give
what is repossessed.

I want only your golden vision;
you may discard the rest.