string eleven (solitude)

the trees

in winter


every tree
is a writer

don’t flatter yourself


the neighborhood trees
stand together
and apart


the trees:
a writing community
strife       wind


sometimes branches grow
to touch          please
don’t strangle me


more often, though,
it’s good ole surreptitious
root love



All the times you unheld something
I believe that is the word
I mean letting go
It is like the bones of your hand
It’s merely structure
It’s like a piano being a piano
No apology is necessary
But you believe you have angel wings, don’t you?
So your apologies are gigantic ones
Like the winds stirred up by your wings
When you are upset and they flutter wildly
You feel there should be a groan in ice
Even in the ice of outer space
Of your feelings
You think you are a special form of earth
You suppose you are different from dirty water or hard winds
All because you have a name and a front door
And these feel like solid things
Those two things you must perforce defend

I, myself, am just a guillotine


bob has a nightmare thingamajig
he doesn’t know what to do with it
maybe open nightmares
the crows all caw at bob
they have never seen
anything so strange

bob rolls through falling snow
lonely robot
counting crows
singing digits of pi
he has no home
like numbers

the asphalt absorbs the quiet
of new snow, new song
bob bobs along
a program tells bob
that Counting Crows is a band
so bob is excited

He didn’t know he was a band


bob sits in a chinese restaurant’s lobby
does some headspins
gets a horoscope done
plays a first person karate video game
hears someone play a violin
kale arrives, more people
winter capes are shaking out flakes
bob is confused
animals are worn on shoulders
bob is new here

bob examines the chinese buffet
food is held in plastic buckets
humans are very strange
chinese food resembles horoscopes
kale arrives, more people
winter capes are left in booths
bob is caught eating one
everyone is confused

bob is new here
there are screams
bob does some headspins