Poetry
One Narrow Old Silent
Tunnels wail, examined.
Branches, bitten, forgive.
nightgreen emptiness
poetry cut-up
The Shine
The Shine
Doubtless, disappointed
the eloquent rooms.
The window made a face.
The pane cried.
Tired, numbly called
counting only want
with a busted wing.
Slipped across stone again
I speak waiting
hide, work
maintain distortion.
Remember to
up my revolution game;
compose howl,
Imagine.
I can see
a moaning ocean
the moon’s labor
mocking your towns.
Vanished rooms
laugh
know summer morning.
Immediacy spins
cut, gone.
Grow away
some other walls.
Some indolent place,
the shine.
The Stranger
The caged thing,
the body disbelieving
its bulk.
The phantom driver,
the undercover
we check
and swallow.
Scant testimony,
we hang
loose to the bone.
Knowledge by Louise Bogan
Knowledge
Now that I know
How passion warms little
Of flesh in the mould,
And treasure is brittle,–
I’ll lie here and learn
How, over their ground
Trees make a long shadow
And a light sound.
Alone as Mannequins
Junk Lives Joy Dies
Addicts
Addicts
We’re addicts, we’re not happy unless we’re ecstatic.
Splinters for the kaleidoscope,
When we’re sad we’re pathetic.
We dilate fantastic.
If it’s a graze, it’s a grope.
We’re addicts, we’re not happy unless we’re ecstatic.
A derelict automatic —
Who can wake or think of soap?
When we’re sad, we’re pathetic.
We’re front page, magnetic,
When life’s a bottomless pile of dope.
But we’re addicts, we’re not happy unless we’re ecstatic.
The mirror turns septic
The bottom-most pinch of hope.
And when we’re sad, we’re pathetic.
Life as an elastic
Keeps most of us from the rope.
We’re addicts, we’re not happy unless we’re ecstatic.
When we’re sad, we’re pathetic.
These Common Senses 