Getting There

The 10 was a friggin' beast and the 9 had burned to

the ground. Was there an 8? No one remembers, but the 7

was made of volcanic ash. The 6 was lined with trees that bore

6 types of fruit. The 5 had a post-office

and strung wires for telephones.

The 4 was a light rail, shaking off time so the air felt free

on the 3,

but it required a helmet for falling

debris.

The tunnel of the 2

seemed longer and darker

than black, but there were cracks

in the walls from which once

in a while, the light from outside did peek through.

Then came the 1, which was made out of sound, 
and when everything stopped,

it kept going.

The Great, Last Bourbon

will be drunk in honey throated silence      and
all together with meaningful
eye to eye glances
because there is no toast
like the last
toast

Hives

black honey goes
buzzing to goo land goo

sticking to everything
like white smell glue

sap for the sticky
sick for the scent of

viscous flower meat
rush to bee

hands hot for
the holding held

home for cold
choking and stung

open to suffer
sweet waggle-dance

again
and then, and
always, again

werner's haiku

jungle has no head
jaguar nightmare beetle dream
herzog on herzog

May Not Come

These nights in April have been active

            and destructive. End not

only. Also end. End completely. And

Give over

way

to all

            end.

            Or stay

sleeping.

                       And let it.

 

Greed Poem

I want more of it. Maybe all of it.

                           Make me

orange. Where the trees hang

large and low. And I will be

                the ice

cube.  And what of the

  melting?  The disappearing
                        cold?
 

                     Maybe swallow it.

haiku of the even keel

grow poet hello
we are telling you the truth
this telephone grass