So many poems begin at morning because everything does.
Every day a must to make again. Every poem also.
Collage, montage, pastiche, not hodgepodge or mishmash.
Rather a synthesis. The pieces speak in many tounges.
Sight is a silent witness: only writing declares. Hard listen must.
Why do so many sit with open mouths? Astound to astonishment.
Slouching saxophones sound sour. Blue sink atop a mushroom
Engage in the violence of sitting still. Demented duck at door.
Your failure to speak is a provocation. Wake the shaking brain.
The cigarettes of language lighted by lightening.
Unzip the poem with fervor but stroke it gently.
Each and every broken straw a calamity. Mania makes more.
Nietzche tormented by hemorrhoids. Doctrine of Eternal
Pain in the Ass. Philosophy is a sight that will not resolve.
Any meaning you don't get is the reason it eludes you.
A wall made of bricks is more than just bricks.
London Bridge stands strong in Lake Havasu City, Arizona.
These fragments have I shored against morning's ruin.
Dive into the unknown day determined to. Just that,
Knowing the grains of sand drip away and away.
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