Limited Linguistics

Word complex


A word or few can hold within its qualms

Entire universes of mysteries and miseries

From that initial jog into view down to

That final extirpation out of entropy’s final thrust.

Lives, of course are more than words, contain

Wonder and pain, love and disgust in configurations

Well beyond the noun or adjective or even verb.

One must contain a throat to scream, a mind

To dream, that sense immense cannot condense

Existence into the formalities of utterable sound

Or even scribbles symbolizing oddly the lightning of life,

That flash of clash that streaks through every now

May echo in linguistic thunder to trace the wonder

Of reality but there is no way that actuality can be trapped

Into the tangles out of the consonants and vowels enwrapped.

Frayed At The End

medical readout

Along the way

One collects.


If one has the wit to realize

The trip may be long

And pockets meanly shallow.


Youth and simple fascination

And an innate sense of order

Folds acquisitions into sense

Which fit most sensibly to stores.

But time overwhelms

Most economic husbandries

With plenitude.


Memories ferment and melt

To Pollock patterns.

Order and disorder meld.

Stars and tissue paper,

Unstrung pearls and graveled skins

Of tangerines long consumed.

Furniture no longer squats

In set configurations.

Curtains sag. Corners soften,

Faired by dust and crumbs

Into spider playgrounds

Where choruses of flies ensnared

Hum in symphony.


Dying must,

I belatedly perceive,

Be approached with caution.

Powers fade and disappear

In minute secret phases,

Like coins percolating

Through a pocket hole.


Distant objects blur.

The spines of books

No longer shout

What lies within.

Their colors smear

As by a moistened thumb

Into colored cacophones.

Sounds struggle through

A buzz and whistle static.

Anaesthetic numbness

Gloves my fingertips.

A ghostly dental shot

Has thickened up my mouth and tongue.

Soon I must be enwrapped

In white sterility

Within a chrome corral

Where hungry tubes

Will suck my openings

And pump intrusive stews

Bestowing to my life

A marginal extension.


Steaming from my center,

Like a lump of melting CO two,

Cold fear billows out

White clouds to lift me up

And off to nothingness.


The Gun



This day there seems

Small concept

Of the chemistry,

The way a meme

Can invade a dream,

Distort its centrality,

Dye, infect, englobe

Discrete components

To its design,

Forge from diversity

A dire unity.


The gun is,

In simplicity,

An engine of

Internal combustion

That dispatches

Its free piston

On death’s mission.

But its meme

Is digital –

Death’s finger

To annihilate

Its designate,

A pointer on the hand

To eliminate on demand.


This metal flesh

Once joined at arm’s length

Infects the mind

With an evil strength.


An object

Can contain an idea.

The Bible is an object.

The U.S. constitution

Is an object.

A gun

Is an object.


That boy

Who murdered, maimed

Other kids at school

Was not a boy

With a lethal toy

Was not a boy

With a gun.


That was a gun

With a boy.




Becoming One’s Self

Snow silhouette


Not who but what defines the core

Of existence where we store our sense and sensibilities.

Within the incessant storm of possibility

Internal unity must withstand that hand

Of fickle fingers reaching out for hope or desperation,

Both frustrated by evanescent ghosts that grin and flit

To excite tergiversation, to decide which it is it.

The self expands, contracts to demands,

Flails or fails to commands for consequence

While straining for the tools that fit, mutate

To shape the floating galaxies and educate the volvox

Out of flagellating conflicts with the currents of infinity.

Nowhere and nonsense integrate in love and hate

To sprout green grass into luxuriance that glistens with delight.

The me and me and me and me can crumble at the edges,

Bleed a scented excellence that might frighten actuality

To probe the sunlight with pink nose and whiskered curiosities.



The Disease Of Is



The what of what, the who of who

The why of why, the no of know,

The distance set by one or two,

How to forget the me and you.

All must comply with curiosities

Of genuines and pomposities.

Like the eye of I and pigs that fly.

Philosophies can ossify

These weary queries that deny

In endless try. Scraping earth and sweeping by

The end of up past the sky.

Mourning morning does not play

Exigencies of the day to soften,

Squeeze unease or disarray.

The detrimental fundamentals often say

The opposites of what they mean

But one must take what one can glean

Underneath or inbetween

What is hidden, what is seen.




Dark matter


There is a line inscribed in time and space

That contains my fingertips and face

Determining here I am and will be and was.

Durations of expectations, collections of regrets

That are best installed and stored in dark mementos.

A life is that and more. Patterns to come, shapes before

That flash and flame in delight and shame that cannot be

Discarded. These are the evanescent solidities of me.

The universe no longer spans vacuums of nothingness

Between the sparkles out of stars but is full filled

With dark mysteries who ghost the emptiness in nets

Between the galaxies that we can barely sense.

Odd distortions of the ways that photons streak,

Incoherent revolutions not to be accounted for

Of galactic spins that betray something odd out that way.

Thus do our lives as well encounter elements of occult spell,

A magic out of random unexpectedness from dark woven strands

That shadow through our lives to strike with lightning bolts,

Jolts of horror to rip away quiddities into what has occurred

Conferring upon all creation that all basics have become absurd.



scrap pile


I am inscribed each morning with the bright Sun, blue skies,

The cheerful twitter of the birds captured in green tapestries of leaves.

The draperies of prospects out of coffee, plans to be fulfilled

Array my energies that flash with expectant sparkles, eagernesses

To begin the weave of time and place with necessities and delights

To be alive in competencies, while dream memories dissolve

In sips of hot coffee, in the smooth yellow of fried eggs on toast.

Yesterday is still clear but fading amongst the faint marks and odd darkenings.

It can be seen as a tattered spattered slightly yellowed sheet of paper

Shivering in the breeze and momentarily caught between a rusty dented tin can

And one half of an old shoe. What, at first, seemed just a smudge takes the shape

Of the profile of a very pretty girl and, quite near, a bit of study can make out

The pattern of a flower. Imagination does strange things and staring brings clear

An antique city street with ornate lamp posts against the spire of a church.

No matter. A heavy gust frees the scrap and quickly it sails away

To chase the seagulls into the clouds.