April 01, 2008


and yet
we have all done it: lived

too much inside
this arena of lions and armor and bright sun.

        I only wanted to touch you the way the pen touches on the imagination

and then pulls back from the heat.
                                             I wonder how sunburned the baby will get seated
in the audience.
          Maybe the parents are too busy cheering the gladiator on or
maybe they just don't
give a damn.

—Sandra Simonds

Posted by dwaber at 02:40 PM

March 31, 2008


                        equinox of withins
                              absconded and
held as thought, delineated
               crossed out, brought back to the surface with the energetic
              gasp of a buoy
             in the iridescence of
                                what is entire-like scales

                                                        on the saline nothingness
things, chiming away, mistaken for the sounds of nature: dare you- instruct
chronology, old
that is your chest, the city built upon it, say something
              lung machine
anything that will fizzle this empire
                                                                   the nonsensical wood and brick

       the mortar that divides like paper, petals torn from the orchid-rings
                   from the dead
                                      do something,  history, old tree, fast axis
                                                                          where you hang your head

—Sandra Simonds

Posted by dwaber at 01:43 PM

March 28, 2008

The Moth on my Chest




                        rises                  as motif    as Oath or Oar


the aeronautics    of                 sour/ce, Circes


                        if]   if]   if]             then blas

                                                              pheme as in



            a passionless boat                           fruit that knows no


better than crest

red bird feather

plate tectonics …


                                                 the anemone’s blue arm wand waves


au revoir, slow as                 


                        cellulose streams ribbons

                                                            across the moon




                                    and I wanted to be called


            urge       or    actor

                        or at most        the page    not the Carbon Yell



                        like every light

                                                             always dims


                        infinitesimal decimal

                                    case in point


            the pen is a muscle                    with its inconsistent Must



—Sandra Simonds

Posted by dwaber at 02:46 PM