One shoe covered in hot wax
when it spilled
splashed on the piano.
One shoe fragrant with the smell
that lingers for days
permeates everything you do.

Apply for a credit card
scrape wax off the sealed floor
so that everything you touch
smells of french vanilla
as it sticks to the surface
of shoes made of canvas or leather.

Reminder of the Season Past

You appeared on a gray day as summer waned
bright as the sun in yellow and red
colors for the season past
and, foolish, I turned the corner
only to turn back in error
to find you had vanished into the ether
a mirage or hallucination
and I know I was too struck to say a word
I just wanted another glimpse of the warm sun
a reminder, bright and warm, of the season past

when the lights fell

when the lights fell
and you took off your shirt
something fell to the floor
and i struggled to find it
lost in the unfamiliar
a room tilting and shaking
conveying a million tactile sensations
with the sole aim of causing confusion

you were nowhere in the dark
you were everywhere in the dark
carefully dancing out of my grip
with artful pirouettes nobody can see
your heels hit the floor behind my head
and when i spin around
i lose my bearing again
but, please, keep dancing

This poem was inspired by a poetry reading performed by my good friend Alex Hampshire, at a Philadelphia art gallery back in May. His work is amazing, and hopefully I can convince him to put it somewhere for public consumption, or he’ll be published.

ink to page, semi-legible scrawl
a silent act, the genesis of Genesis
when you open your mouth to read
the sound of a nuclear explosion
while everyone stands at attention
as the pages turn and bombs fall
only the intermittent cough punctuates
the pauses between verses
you handmake the sounds of language
arm the fuse with your voice
presenting all alone to the crowd
in the tiny space of an art gallery
drowning the barely audible chiptunes
rapt and enthralled in the moment
    of creation, of destruction, of explosion
your page is a transparency
there may as well be no more words
only reference to bring around
the final, most important sound

A lune is a poetic form Invented by Robert Kelly to be an English version of haiku. It uses a syllable pattern of 5-3-5, and is named lune because the shape of the right edge is reminiscent of a half-moon. A variant form uses words instead of syllables, and is 3-5-3.

These lunes were written during one hour of a poetry workshop class at Temple University. One is in the variant form.

this poem contains one
lune, poorly
written and unplanned

falling water drops
washes away
all your filthy grime

there is nothing there
one can’t fill
with a bit of work

please turn off your
television
go outside and think

simplicity is just
a more powerful way of
making a point

three in the morning
and only i
am walking these streets

stuffing my life in
tight spaces
you can’t even breathe in

emergent patterns
breaking down
into mere chaos