Tuesday, March 31, 2009


Like a ton of pavement
Washed up and liquid
Toward its inevitable conclusion
Unearthed grass and cigarette butts
Ripple beneath the street.

The train tracks
Used to go North and South
To other destinations
That meant something else
But their buried too
And spread out

Closer and closer
They barrel to the center
Of the city
Away from Lake Michigan
To the middle of the prairie

The knowledge underneath
Years of erosion
And modernity
(the decomposing animals,
bones blood stained,
thornberry paved streets and...)

We got it now.
A global community
That reaches away
From the Great Lakes
To Everything

Where it comes back
Again though the oceans
Can’t be colonized
And the larger bodies
Of water can’t be

This society flies
Over on zero
And one

We’re all Living
Together on this
Old prairie

And we,
We can see

Sunday, March 22, 2009

There's a pigeon in the prayer house

There's a pigeon in the prayer house
and we're not wearing shoes.
I'm biting my tongue
on a floor of blue carpet,
under a dome painted blue.
The doors to the decks are open
and the sky is turning grey.
It's no wonder then:
a pigeon in the prayer house.

Saturday, March 14, 2009


Blind priests see Christ more in floorboards and baseboard-heaters
than anyone who can enjoy particles in front of them
I confess, flesh tones and bank loans will suffice
though 78's and 45's wait as if at gunpoint attention for the order
alphapersonalogic is the one I feel right now
it dwells in the subsonic-chronicaudiophiliaphonic ranges;
an ethnic relic
because 'Hebrew' means 'to wander'