To go back to what was never there | to find a fact made of wishes | a corpulent genie painted in gold | with a bottle of nightingales | slung over its shoulder | in its brainless head | no detail of the Khmer Rouge | or stamps to tie in a name | but some powdery dust to start a new desert | and no sign of a path | forged through unknown constellations | is it the true way | or an ideal form of evasion | a dream eventually | purged of dreams?… | God encompasses us all | Pink tigers with azure stripes | tumbling from a pillow | the trees in bronze acrylic | the cab slows | through the festive season | bodies under the mistletoe | a drowsy | Ulysses of the bars and clubs | heading not for Ithaca and home | but away | hoping to set sail again | before the first stars form…

Historical accounts of dreamlike slaughter | A touching scene | of butchers with their children | the business, the need, the doting | Wrapped package | holding the fragments in | gold foil of a saint’s skin | Mies van der Rohe of the pipeline kings | the blueprints in Illinois | a green light at that hour | like shallow water both poised and posed | at dusk | At the edge, where the pattern runs out | the ghost begins its own account | in a locked head | the tumblers roll | the dream secret in the skull’s dead safe | waiting to fire and to blow | a new glass vessel | a pretty inferno | a design for automobiles | a tract turning to oil | a heaven-sent peace as I fall | to the kitchen floor and they go back to talking | about caravans and macaroons | or somesuch thing | the poles and position | by spirit, want, obligation | and GPS | the cab rattling in evening traffic | taking us to our next appointment

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)