objets d' desire

I will be trying to post at least a few poems a week, to see if that increases readership. I think it's a worthy experiment, and certainly a harmless one, as I have a lot of old poems unread by anyone besides myself.

temple of ants

hear the chanting of clacking pincers,

guiding the way to

bits of broken pretzel,

crumbs from Hostess Twinkies,

sugary goop from a root beer Dum-Dum

all dropped by a small child

wending his way home, not wanting

to lose the trail back

out to the world



and the ants marching home,

with offerings for the One,

the mother,

never breaking free from the womb,

the scent of the great mother,

larger in her fecundity

than 20, 30 male workers,

fragile in her vulnerable

centrality

to life under ground

to the mound

to the hearts of thousands,

to the health of devoted followers

running unpatterned unpatterns

through sand, through soil,

through composting matter

and constant, exacting chatter

first blue

first blue
written one morning -- about the process of sun rising






a taint of quavering navy,
blue of ghosts and blue of dark, sad thoughts

the part of the brain that distinguishes color,
discerns an infinite shades of azure,

the flight of birds
against the punctured sky,
the inception of creation
at first blue light

a palpable powder-blue, incurably rising now,
a baby-boy-blanket blue, a faded blue-jean blue,
a sentient hue



it knows its own self,
and it may know me

better than I do