pozzolana and the train ride

dust mottled steam bulbs lazily out from soot-crowned stacks in the distance
as we pass a dry-laid stone prison.
concrete hoppers belch forth quantities of sand and lime
as we pass soft wet foundation walls bristling with rebar
like the cilia of smokers’ lungs.
the horizon bobs drunkenly, narrowly avoiding the matriculating cloud cover,
as we pass small busted out-buildings, compressed into the large aggregate gravel,
locked like knuckles.
bridge trestles weep iron and flake like brittle lepers
as we pass dredge ponds, repellent and teeming.
the crumbling ruin of industry lopes by,
as I laugh through my mariner’s teeth.

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while offering a synergism

the hard warm ground
the streaked and crumbling stones
the birds lifting out of the grass
and fallen leaves
rising upwards in curls
so continuously it seems as
though they are emerging from
the creationary earth.
effercescent and carrying all the tones of dirt and soil
iron brown and mottled.
continuous, the infinite regress
from the dropping leaves
they lift, alight and so
clothe the now barren trees.
these polyphonic raindrops
falling up the draft of wind with flat black eyes

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in the society of principled minds

oh, pale young regulator with her accidental
controlled by flexible casing and wire,
do you sit comfortably wile your consciousness is
harnessed to a certain flesh?

she says to me ‘the problem with
is that they are not enthusiastic,’ and i wonder
at the flitches that have
veneered her face. does it hurt you, faint
bureaucrat, that you hunt for fire nonetheless?

‘however, the promethean curse seems to remain;
the android hunts for fire,’ she pours these liquid
into my ear. lulled by her rattle and hum, my reptilian
brain sits warming in the sun – anesthetized.

doubt sloth and vice are missing yet, but why? i ask
from behind my curtain and she licks the velveteen
with an inspector’s sanguinary
‘isn’t the assurance of truth a louder voice? a
clearer one?’ she seeps.

‘the desire to pass on the fullness of belief,
can it be found in an indifferent android? an
android?’ the ventilation of her pneumatic
lungs bristling down the length
of the rosary spine that contracts while she weeps.

‘but we are not blind to predetermined nullity,’
blares the voice-box in a tinny hoarse
‘but are free of it!’ now full of vim
yet lacking the vigor of a youth
resigned to ever-darkening future we’ve prepared.

oh, febrile faculty with your polymorphic
you’ve seen an eternity without life,
encouraging the androids
to flourish in the fog of denial and despair.

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in the higher order of animals

malicious children in the

upturned dark,


around windows filled with cinder blocks.

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‘Hurld in the Hadean eye’

“Rocks are like immensely slow waves,”
She said, turning a bit,
“And occasionally they weep,”
Now with her back to him entirely.

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for lars von trier

windblown and screeching
she clambered towards the sky
like a deranged tree,
root-bound to a balding mountaintop.

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“For an old bitch gone in the teeth, / For a botched civilization,”

a small buddha sits absorbing all motion, deep rumbles beneath the earth, vibrating into the buddha’s mind.

monogamous billboard

hermetic hay bales

fabco and zaber industries

tired joys and torrential fuel

magic body collision.

great billows of smoke in the distance, dense and undulating, diaphanous backdrops for expansive steel frames, rusting, looming over concrete patches given up to weeds and debris.  dead brown grass and gnarled leafless trees, endless shoals of gravel interweave with trampled brown-gold straw.  intermittent pylons totter on iron-stain-red concrete footings that are being slowly expelled from the earth, by the earth.  all the trees lean away, aghast, jealous, vicious, everlasting.

refractions of sunlight glint through the balding pines, the culprits nothing more than piles and clumps of busted glass and torn plastic, stacks of uprooted tree trunks, shorn and systematized, are surrounded by yellow-brown heavy machinery. an unholy exhumation and grotesque display of remains. earth-shaping.  and we’ve come to the place where they tear at the earth, all motors and steel, hungry, hungry, always empty.  Herzog’s container cars and shipping depot loading docks.  waste treatment plants buried like middens, ancient and seaward.

a tiny hill-top graveyard is scattered with miniscule headstones looking over a muddy stream and the kudzu would choke these trees had it not already died.  endless fields too ruined, spoiled, poisoned even to be fallow, consisting mostly of charred tree stumps and empty utility sheds.  hawks circle in tight arcs, eyes tethered to the ground, wondering if prey can even live here.  what dredge ponds that do form are fly-ridden, myopic, and mostly sludge.  it is a wonder that the edges are a deep rich green and not a rotting-death brown.  

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