For Neil

Box

What a poetic word is box,
and it in all its ways is yours
my dear, dear friend.
The box and the word together
(is there one without the other?)
contain you and you them.
Yet only one god
there is
the box and the word for the god,
and the god self-bound ever and unto
the boxish, boxing, box-ed box.
You, you've got your box.

who the heck knows

Forever Is Not So Long

Out there is a canvas
all gradations of black and white and metallic shine,
but flecks of life here and there
among the synthetic bustle.
The organic punctuates--no--it defines.
It punctures the plastic surface
and the real escapes in bursts;
irrepressible shocks of air which force us to breathe and know.
And know whom? Or what? Or whence?...
Or why it is we know not until it happens upon us?

Fights Can Be So Inspiring

Untitiled

Egg shells, egg shells
egg shell white
the walls that wall my mind
sometimes
whether to write or whine
to climb or jump or sing
the walls wall up my mind
white like egg shells
egg shells, which surprise to prick deep
and halter me; my bleeding feet.