Sea of Glass



Bloc hymns


Bliss and Reproach

bliss & reproach (1) (1) ←⇐

This is one of the Poems on Demand I did for the Memory Project and Florida Wildflower Society benefit with the FSU school of Dance.






Fête galante

I tour the backyard brambles in my shorts
and flip flops for the gallantry of overgrowth,

Slipshod, the azalea have opened their purses

to bees and black damsel flies.

The Blackberry vines have slipped barefoot
through the camellia tying their thorny garrotes
Around the silk necks of flowers. Such is the footstep
of beauty, dreamy eyed, steadied by boredom
and twisting. After a season, the jasmine vine is so thick
in the arms of Sweetgum bark that the two flesh
are melded to one shadow.

The dying branch gives its leaves
in summer, season to ingest, season to dismiss.

I pursue, not dressed for the ceremony.
Maître d insects object my intrusion
with curt flybys of disapproval and stings.

It’s all so fancy and hungry I think maybe
I should take a shower and come back.

I feel as though I’ve been bounced
From the discoteque of morning
Not by force but by my own self
conscious misgiving.

No. What I see brushed
in the ink of noon shadow
is a lie, but discreet like snake skin rubbed
of on the spikes of wild blackberry vine
Luxuriating in its own ignorance.

I choose to be insecure, I know it.
I stay silent at this party, the guest everyone wants
to leave.

The white camellia blossoms fall
the way my antidepressants
fill the pill bottle inside me.

I can hardly recognize myself, things are so accurate,
Resolved like a painting.



Every Speck Moves

Halfway down the pattern in the carpet
A snag in the weave grows legs to steal my eyes.

The shadowed recess in the foyer crawls
As I slip sideways through the door

The glass slips the world back in to place
And the shadows under the silver leaf giggle a bit.

In quiet moments when I’m ground to stillness,
Hitched on the engine of thought

The stray spear of grass writhes in my periphery
Sprouting to animation with an extraterrestrial will.

It’s not simple motes drifting on a pulse, loose
Kernels of debris like asteroids floating

In my contemplation. No this is the manifestation
Of the darker will wriggling to poke through

The tiny cracks that come to life when I’m not looking.





Quest dreams befuddle
Me, gurgling depths

Prattle and roses, muddied
Amplifiers vibrate me
In my depths.

Transferring cups from the gas
Station’s coffee drudge,
I’m stains awaiting

Read my dream, dressed
As dinner, neck
Tied to the bleeding
Post, stamped consumer

Grade, unveil
The passage.



December Nineteen Ten


On or about nude descending a tile rooftop
Human culture bought a cell phone.

On or about nineteen batteries human culture
Descended to waterfront locations.

On or about human culture made ten nudes
Of roof tile, changing batteries.

On or about the geometry of humans, nineteen
Changes battered the nude.

On or about the battered humans, nineteen changes
Descended to roof tile.

On or about geometry human tens turned nineteen
As culture took the batteries from its cell phone.

On or about the virgin batteries human culture
Descended in ripples of nude geometry.