Squalid Glass

This is a little deposit of short poems. Most of these are completely cut down versions of older poems. I find this editing style works nicely for me.

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A Man


Someone lives near the edge –
(a man who runs about the clouds)
leaps off the ledge in graceful bounds.

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Death


Death is the cold room
where shades are drawn
and the radiator shakes.

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A Breath Does Not Flow Like a River


instead, it collapses, retracts,
like two lovers
gently swaying together.

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Poets


should pretend their words are just a seasonal thing
like leaves in fall to scatter and drift away.


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Watching the Fireworks across the Colombian Sky Erupt

They sounded like bombs, and the kid in me
hoped school would be canceled because of war.

La Mesa was humid air and two days in a wooden bed
trying to escape them all.

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Green


is what I remember
about the girl standing there
under the towering trees.

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Her Index Finger


I saw it only briefly,
because she hid it when she saw me see.


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How He Manages to Write the Poem


He manages like an un-resourceful castaway –
catches fish with a dull, brittle stick;
tries to rub a leaf to build fire in the sand.

He eats raw meat because he saw the coyote do the same –
the coyote spoke to him, inspired him –
now he eats the coyote with tree bark not to be bland.


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Now Just Ordinary


You showed up sometime around sunset
clad in clothes I can’t recall
because it’s not really important anymore.


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The End


Now you explore, alone in the jungle,
while I traverse the west.
This vast expanse of gravity between us
remains sound and ultimately best.