The poem that remains unpubished

Poem number 25

Now the end and my mind
has emptied itself. frankincense (Sinatra songs no more will
the end) is near and so I face the venal curtain. reverberate through the random pathways of the skull be neat skill, beneath the blood between the cortex cerebellum. it might be called not that I care I want to be done.
Referee, get on with the nothingness; I cherish the word that is (used).
more pop songs learned in eighths grade. never guava when I try to make them go away all they do is hove back like dragnonflied blue birds.

I will die of broken midnight

I will die of broken midnight
For Cesar Vallejo

I will die of broken midnight
when a sallow moon pulls the neap tide of light
from my telluric side.

I will die ready for breakage,
a cracked cup or mug or teapot
cracked with stains of words.

I will die of pulpit and conflictions
the swelling of convictions
compounded with an overactive doubt.

They will bury me under words
spoken by strangers
bearing putrid dichotomies.

Pilgrimage to Metronome

We meet to climb the wooden pyramid
Seal the trunk looks on
We lay packs to backs
Balance on twin legs
Libra holds her balance out
Blinding yes to shutter the storm
Of charlatan ghosts
Ticking, clicking the meter’s heart
Weighed in the balance
Lacking psychic paths of metronome
Scale the unlit see
Dark yardsticks the light
Winding the salty taste of blood
Upon the fishmonger tunes.

Vallejo inspired, I suppose

The Stupor that Dulls
after Vallejo

The stupor that dulls the edge of hope,
that grinds to pulp the stillborn word,
that stultifies the worker’s hands
to motionless stumps;

The stupor that slowly drains the pus of youth
and leaves dried blister skin,
that refuses to kill but keeps alive
futility like the unwed bride;

The stupor that steals love from love
and leaves a hollow vowel to echo
against the chains of its own heart;

The stupor that leaves the dead undead
to continue lives of muted discontent
so muted it sloths to bed night
after dreamless, restless night;

The stupor that envies the stiff-eyed man
who stares out over the park, over the drive,
over the promised lies of satisfaction
absorbing nothing;

The stupor that sits in the open garage door
in stained undershirt, in aluminum lawnchair,
smoking cigars and drinking whiskey highballs
as leaves blow unnoticed around the feet.