Ranged

she stood there, and there was no war between us

hundreds stood like her, for years

for a little drink, she stood above the toothless grin

of the wildfire line, the hollowed juniper

anticipating nothing in the yellowing distance

I couldn’t say whether we were opponents

she stood there, a hunt, like a smoldering bush,

assumes oppositional forces, strong cuts

unearthing the harvest, salt-hide, brine heart

her honest garment of ash and crosshairs

a wind swept through the canyon

a mediator of meat and museum

rumors of ceremony stretch

across the highline trail, reddening

for Autumn, rippled like a hidden pond

stirred by a velvet spike before the flash

blackening its ankle in the burn, the cutthroat

air betrays its warning, air once angry

who pushed flames through the herd, yawns

and sheds its skin, this is the thirsty hour

what is equalized is distance through briars

and bear grass, she stood there unaware

of the war between us, the minerals in our bones

prayed into the smoke, and then she fell

Selected for Participation

act, abandon your warm cotton

attack the reputable hour, diabetic

five a.m. alarm for a prick, the vibration

of a most recent meal debt, approach

curve scale, sugar, move: this

morning is not for nouns

guide—all the quiet you harbor

at this time, and somewhere

in America Elton John is playing

radio is a substance, a lethargic dust

a type 2-step waltz glycemic; competitive

name the song and it’s there

birthing insulin, stretching a million

frequencies, an emergent weight

descending ballerina, you must

have seen her dancing in the sand

burn the heart caloric, and now she's in me,

rearview mirror shake, a single ingredient

always with me, tiny dancer metabolism 

salted, breathing heavy in the mist

__________________________________

posted to dVerse: In the corner of your eye

Burial Life Insurance as Little as .25 a Day

generally, through black

and isn’t the surrounding personal

is it rude to speak of blossoms, now, as if

foods change love       so often dreaming of elevation

the force is best that forces an appreciation of fruit

cool, grape animals, a morning recreation

a rectangle in satin silence

finances are no mountain any more

any dog can bark a message

music, a perfect scenery

no blog about it

no heart for climbing

the end is fruit

budgets want an elegant statue, portraits, day and

chime, all that religion

at the last moment

we dead are the growers         from previous time

forcing some tradition             breathtaking

landform, famous but for terrain

more end

less spring

fantastic earth            

celebrate on the fat

background river mountain hospitable

more produce than clockwork, opening

to $0.00 air, where there's a didn’t of flowers

you-shouldn't-have flowers sleeping on, 

            with winemaker worshipers of this

                      early valley dirt and permanence

 for wooden climate   

love food, go change

fruit forces produce

day plants and elevated—all

for the silence of a quarter

on a Friday well spent

Namtar and the 60 Demons

From this moment, a cumulus spray

dissects the air. Grandmothers weep

into their sleeves. And so it is.

The tale of common water and sky

bathed in droplets, wedged in rat-coiled waste

along the carnival curbs.  The firefighters made

rainbows for children while hot navies anchored

their ships in their young lungs.  This day

outnumbered our creators. This day a cough

or a snot of disbelief splintered.  Shrapnel

liquidated our map-dot borders.  Through the face.

In a pinch.  By possession.  Beyond incineration.

Ring the bell, feel the bank blow open

its vault of violence in a sneeze.

   

This diffusion strokes our serpents, breaks our bricks,

Brings our antibodies to their knees.