Category: Book 1

(Poem #159 on new numbering scheme)

He layered brick upon brick,
creating a kind of fake
mountain up which he might walk,
plotting God's death at its peak.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #158 on new numbering scheme)

A semi-automatic
weapon, some semiotic
reasons, a panegyric to be said
to the dead. Terrific.

– an englyn unodl crwca

(Poem #157 on new numbering scheme)

Do the things that make you glad
despite the fact that you did
things undeniably bad...
you did them because you could.

– an englyn proest dalgron – apropos my posting earlier today, I guess, and tongue-in-cheek.

(Poem #156 on new numbering scheme)

The magpie cocked its head, then
paused to watch a leaf, began
to step into the strong sun -
a blue, black and white machine.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #155 on new numbering scheme)

The teacher's droning was not
comprehensible. Some scant
words made sense. She passed a note.
Faithless, time flowed like cement.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #154 on new numbering scheme)

On the first day of the year,
I feel kinda sad. There are
so many things that I care
to achieve... yet I sit here.

– an englyn proest dalgron
[daily log: walking, 1km]

(Poem #153 on new numbering scheme)

Due to the smog from Beijing,
red stains the light in morning,
as if the gods are burning - at least one -
as if the sun's setting.

– an englyn unodl crwca

(Poem #152 on new numbering scheme)

I walk home. The sun has gone,
such that all that's left is then
a kind of distillation
of dusk, flavored by the moon.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #151 on new numbering scheme)

He sat down with the grim gods
to play poker. He dealt cards,
spinning them out from his hands,
preparing his daring deeds.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #150 on new numbering scheme)

The monkey, magnificent
with his rainbow-hued, bent
limbs, all bendy, at last sent, hurled along
headlong, by some student.

– an englyn unodl crwca

(Poem #149 on new numbering scheme)

The cold air hung like a stone,
and its surface, not so thin,
demarcated a vague line
between the earth and the sun.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #148 on new numbering scheme)

These sacks of bones, meat and blood
have a small fragment of cold,
strange intellect, and thus should
try to discover what's good.

– an englyn proest dalgron

(Poem #147 on new numbering scheme)

Maybe I don't like Christmas;
it often seems to mean less
to those who have known some loss:
all the cheer's extraneous.

– an englyn proest dalgron
[daily log: walking, 1.5km]

(Poem #146 on new numbering scheme)

In cold wind, a few leaves swirled.
Grey, inchoate gods unfurled
their pale fingers, stale spirit,
here at the end of the world.

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #145 on new numbering scheme)

That was a horrible day:
Students quit and went away.
The boss gave an angry rant,
and I can't think what to say.

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #144 on new numbering scheme)

The kids travel by rainbow,
hopping from desert to snow
interdimensionally.
Through alleys and clouds they go!

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #143 on new numbering scheme)

Two cats discussed solitude
across gulfs of feline mood.
The one suggested, "Look here,
without fear." The other mewed.

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #142 on new numbering scheme)

I excavated a hole
pushing the earth, like a mole.
And there I buried my brain.
With rain, I might grow a soul.

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #141 on new numbering scheme)

For now, exquisite disgust
sketches out my doubts and must
indicate the neglect felt
where I knelt in spinning dust.

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #140 on new numbering scheme)

Try something. Open your head.
Find some ghosts. Talk to the dead.
Let apophenic meaning
come screaming through what they said.

– an englyn cyrch
[daily log: walking, 1km]

(Poem #139 on new numbering scheme)

Two AM, and I can't sleep -
Thinking stuff, and it feels deep.
But it's not - just wasting time.
The climb out is very steep.

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #137 on new numbering scheme)

The struggle with gravity,
with the strange concavity
of spacetime, is blamed on splines
and Einstein's depravity.

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #136 on new numbering scheme)

Dead leaves caught on a street grate
trace an unspeakable fate
on a moment so bitter
the winter wind tastes like slate.

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #135 on new numbering scheme)

I worry about small things. Peace of mind
is hard to find. Doubtings
unfold, like coils or springs.
A clockwork beetle grows wings.

– an englyn unodl union

(Poem #134 on new numbering scheme)

Deciduous dawn redwoods
shed their needles so they could
make small piles on the sidewalks
and blocks of my neighborhood.

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #133 on new numbering scheme)

I grow weary of oatmeal:
its amorphousness, surreal,
brooding in its little bowl
its sole purpose, to congeal.

– an englyn cyrch

[daily log: walking, 1km]

(Poem #132 on new numbering scheme)

"Give us the alligator!" they tell me.
I say, "Maybe later."
"Teacher, you mean dictator!"
Those kids, procrastinators!

– an englyn unodl union

(Poem #131 on new numbering scheme)

About the rains in Mahhal, you might say
most every day it falls;
Beneath the constant gray pall,
into your sad soul it crawls.

– an englyn unodl union about a fictional place, written by a fictional person

(Poem #130 on new numbering scheme)

A conspiracy of ants debated,
congregated, danced.
Some crickets sang in a trance,
but the sun spared not a glance.
The Californian earth cried, desperate
for rain or wet, but sighed
resigned to hot wind that dried
the trees and grass. The hills died.

– a pair of englyn unodl union (caveat: this poem not reflective of the current weather outside).

(Poem #129 on new numbering scheme)

The mirror was reticent. It refused
to be confused, intent
on atmospherics, my bent
face, the missing hair, silent.

– an englyn of indeterminate form

(Poem #128 on new numbering scheme)

A little fragment of art, seen walking:
a face talking, a part
of a skull - below, a heart.
Modern? Anyway, a start.

– an englyn unodl union

(Poem #127 on new numbering scheme)

Winter is a guileless thing. December
can't remember thinking
about constraints: No inkling
of glad rain or birds that sing.

– an englyn unodl union