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Fisher King
The wounded king emerges from a cave, leaning on a gnarled staff His steps like stones of queer effulgence tattoo with light earth’s face So that his graceful way might be easily traced or aped, at measured pace He walks all the way from the mountainous place to the marketplace He longs the exalted altar…
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Dogged onward
No practice breaking records Call this a new era, new chapter Get my news from Al Jazeera Get my views from scrying mirror Bagheera talking to me, Rudyard Kipling interspecies conversating If I spell checked your document don’t tell people we’re cooperating The docket’s dates and names are faked, doctored, Stalin’s operative Photoshopped out of it…
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Smokebars
Around so often, thought I haunted you A spectral presence you felt following you A ghost in the gloom, seen in the moon bloom I’m in the dead bedroom, Molly Bloom Man of fates, I walk into a pecuilar room Din from the fortune telling booth Psychic shouting someone get me a pencil, something’s coming…
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Day off up earlier than for work
Rising daily at dawn Moments before my first alarm Staring at the besummed face on my arm Its stations and markers A bisected tree’s leafless phase, rings marking advanced age Its knobbled face, half-effaced, like a green man gazing out from his bole redoubt An ancient loathing, cold old disgrace, a lonely place stuck loading…
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Alchemisland 