Illuminating the Umbra

When I'm beneath the shadow of a doubt,
I make it harder, focus on the times
when loss is everything. I think about

damages inflicted, the sordid crimes.
Real or imagined, it has to matter
I make it harder, focus on the times

I want back again. Those visions shatter
as I rub my eyes with finger and thumb.
Real or imagined, it has to matter

Nostalgia's a song. Its memories strum,
play me thin. Compelling hopes radiate
(as I rub my eyes with finger and thumb),

eat themselves for vigour, attenuate.
My designs and requirements conflict,
play me thin. Compelling hopes radiate

from my knowing this: I am far too strict
when I'm beneath the shadow of a doubt.
My designs and requirements conflict
when loss is everything I think about.

I have missed a bunch of these. I am going to read them when it is quiet.

I like the turn of phrase, the subtle change in punctuation, of the first two.

Very nice. As always.

Thank you, Maria.
I quite like them all. I come back to them when I'm not feeling great.
They always manage to make me feel… I don;t know, but I like it, whatever
it is.

Creative? Productive? Smart?

That is how I feel, anyway.

I haven't tried one in awhile. I need a quiet place and quiet is a bit hard to come by at the moment.

Rood Behavior

Early this morning, I dreamt I was late,
drenched in corp'rate blood. My dedication
—shrouded under cloth, inside a thin crate—

broke my silence, demanded oration.
My friend Jeff Adams gave a eulogy
drenched in corp'rate blood. My dedication

extracted pounds, rended flesh off of me
for the cause, for greasing the processes.
My friend Jeff Adams gave a eulogy

and nailed it: "Which sad, rugged cross is his?"
Each pallbearer knew that I'd been giving
for the cause, for greasing the processes.

The mentor within spends time reliving,
noticing that life gets carried away.
Each pallbearer knew that! I'd been giving

more than their money's worth: came in today,
early this morning. I dreamt I was late
noticing that life gets carried away
shrouded under cloth inside a thin crate.

Decision Science Slaughterhouse

This week was a wringer, and I am wrung
featherless, twisted like a rooster's neck
splintering. Prayers on the tip of my tongue

but I don't say them—just watch doyen wreck,
tear away the foundation, clamp shackles.
Featherless, twisted, like a rooster's neck,

sick, slick without shiny, pointed hackles
to attract the hens, our time is over:
tear away the foundation, clamp shackles

on talent. No leadership, just drover
and cutting edge to cull, bloody the flock.
To attract the hens, our time is over.

It's difficult peddling blood-stained schlock
because it's our blood, bad technology,
and cutting edge to cull, bloody the flock,

worship at the feet of necrology.
This week was a wringer, and I am wrung
because it's our blood—bad technology
splintering prayers on the tip of my tongue.

Surface Water

Our shoes are wet, slick-April reflections
on the march. We try, fail to enlighten
the ghost, the glint kiss on our complexions.

For warmth, we keep moving. Damp socks tighten
against our toes clinging, cold, our full weight
on the march. We try, fail to enlighten

the environment's metabolic rate.
This world is fat, depressing, and crushing
against our toes. Clinging cold, our full weight

presses down, spirals 'round the drain. Rushing,
sewer-bound, we use, we discard. Because
this world is fat, depressing, and crushing,

life will seize, search (without probable cause),
strip us of virtue, force us to give up.
Sewer-bound, we use, we discard. Because

we spill, rather than share, the loving cup,
our shoes are wet, slick. April reflections
strip us of virtue, force us to give up
the ghost, the glint kiss on our complexions.

Heh. Double post

And a stealth edit!

You don't see "doyen" used very often in a sentence.

I like these last three. The imagery is strong and almost painful.

Heh. "Doyen" has a very specific "educational" origin.
Wonder why I chose it…

Persistence

They develop from within, suddenly,
those ah-hah moments when my students reach
the goal I've set for them: not to need me.

I'm a blazing column of wax. I teach.
The bright candles consume themselves to smelt
those ah-hah moments. When my students reach

beyond the delays of failure, they melt
and give immortality to my life.
The bright candles consume themselves to smelt

some crude ore into precious metals rife
with creative expression. They achieve
and give immortality to my life.

My influences continue, may conceive.
They develop from within, suddenly.
With creative expression, they achieve
the goal I've set for them: not to need me.

I very much like all these most recent ones. You have a genuine talent for the turn of a phrase, a poet's ear.

I very much like the sentiment of the last one.

Thanks. My schedule weirded up, and left me unable to sleep the last few nights, so…

The Watch at Night

Time's not selective. It runs opposite
of memory, which needs it to survive,
to make decisions (on the face of it),

to self-deceive, to convince, to connive
its children. It's they who suffer the loss
of memory. Which needs it to survive,

the molten thoughts within or the cold dross
without? Which of these hardens, which dissolves
its children? It's they who suffer the loss

when the brain forgets pledges and absolves
what we'd like to call sin. (We believe we're
without.) Which of these hardens, which dissolves

our best efforts: our needs, what we'd prefer?
For forgiveness, we must unbind what's bound
(what we'd like to call sin.) We believe we're

right (clockwise) and left (progressively wound).
Time's not selective. It runs opposite
for forgiveness. We must unbind what's bound
to make decisions on the face of it.

Psychic Snuggle Dessert Time

Around imaginary hearth, huddled
between flickering flames, they are thankful.
As simple bread bakes, thoughts relax, muddle

like an orange and white cat smiling grateful
at your head, rubbing his scent upon you
between flickering flames. They are thankful

for the moment, apart, yet hugging too
in his thoughts. You can feel him inside and
at your head, rubbing his scent upon you.

He blankets the world in relief. Your land
tastes of butterscotch and milk, will prevail
in his thoughts. You can feel him inside and

you're topping out on a Fahrenheit scale.
Around imaginary hearth, huddled
tastes of butterscotch and milk will prevail.
As simple bread bakes, thoughts relax, muddle.

Tea Barbarians

We live much within the ordinary,
the crickity-old boards, the sharp wedges
that gate, divorce us from exemplary.

We live on society's rough edges:
drop our tea bags into a plastic jug.
The crickity-old boards, the sharp wedges

form a palisade, a splinter-filled hug
that holds our lives. We're open full throttle,
drop our tea bags into a plastic jug.

Later on, we'll swig right from the bottle,
twist the cap, place it all back in the fridge
that holds our lives. We're open full throttle.

Prickle your skin, raise your eyebrow ridge
—we don't give a damn about etiquettes.
Twist the cap, place it all back in the fridge.

With our backwash mixing with your cold sweats,
we live much within the ordinary.
We don't give a damn about etiquettes
that gate, divorce us from exemplary.

It's Just Chicken

They may look lively, run (without a head)
across the road for some unanswered why,
then scratch around one last time, but they're dead.

Cut up the rest of them: back, leg, and thigh,
package the dark flesh for 98 cents
across the road. For some unanswered why,

scatter their bones (predict future events)
or just snap them apart and make wishes.
Package the dark flesh for 98 cents

but premium price all-white-meat dishes.
Make their bones the base for our wellness soups
or just snap them apart and make wishes

to undo. Steal the children from their coops.
The unborn will give body to our cake.
Make their bones the base for our wellness soups

and pot pies. When it all begins to ache,
they may look lively. Run! Without a head,
the unborn will give body to our cake,
then scratch around one last time, but they're dead.

Again with the chickens.

'Molten thoughts' is a terrific image. Very rich.

You Can Bet On a Horse's Memory

It's true. I thrive when saddled with contraints:
galloping patterns and syllable counts.
Weak hands cannot rein (nor enforce restraints),

serve only to spur me when tension mounts
at my neck, tries to martingale my head.
Galloping patterns and syllable counts

blinker my attention. I'm thorough, bred
to my own conformation. The rider's
at my neck, tries to martingale my head,

amble my gait (without need). Providers
can provide—without provisions! Leave me
to my own conformation. The rider's

job is get there! On this we should agree
and expect of me more than an ally
can provide. Without provisions, leave me

the burden. If you carry us, we'll die.
It's true. I thrive when saddled with contraints
and expect of me more than an ally.
Weak hands cannot rein, nor enforce restraints.