ATrueNorseman

 I.  "Art Museum" modern persian miniature on white leaflets; a maze for lab ants. II. "Kaiser in Paris" a deadbeat in front de Franche-Comté; patents for toilet paper. III. "in Dingle" the earliest casualties drowned at night, driftwood in wilted, Irish fields. IV. "The Mistake" August 27 2012, an elephant awoke; in Tampa, Florida. ~MK

A crushed apple led the new yorker to notice that only half destroyed he could feed his dog off the sidewalk dog and the bum walked downtown to the daises, flowers grew on that street for the first time in years he couldn't decide what to do anymore on his ass in whisky, she threw shit out the window, like the stray he was unwanted and waiting and crushed in the middle of the road as gifts flew out windows, he grabbed the dog for the night and he felt the city save him shinny the red toy was his son's ~MK

When I look at the sunset draw out between the stratus clouds I know there's going to be the orange sky melting into the blue night sky just the same as any other day With high stratus clouds I know it will get dark and I know the cold will bring a fog above a still heated earth along a dry coast populated with trees or factories ripely brewing I trust the dew has begun at 5 when the heated atmosphere drifts miles into the sea, forming storms for no one the type of dew from a rainless day speckled with oils of debris and dry air I've lived for days without opening an eye and never missed a beat of the gulls stealing fries fro

a virgin piece of silver and welt wood solemn and square, four inches apart hand from the ear pound the gavel down a nail the coroner's tools, the town jewels nightly tapping at the nape of fears leaked between the ears and fingers clasped on the letters of the law every gunshot horned to the hollowed pine echoed across the oldest river where cross men wade and tread to the black, vaulted banks the dust trailed his hammer like holy water and the people cheered, and cheered ~MK

I read his books he pointed to when he didn't speak, or care to listen my words were all too simple, dust under the carpet he said again my questions were stupid but I couldn't understand him the night is still when the rain floats divided without a whole if in flight, where are their wings where are their colors? the wind whispers but the porch is in a howl questions like where do the hills go when flooded, why stay out get sick and die why did the ground distance with years? but still every one hears the silence of it swallowing all sound ~MK

Aesop was a god, And his writings could flood Every tissue-paper-page of hotel bibles with fable. Like little truths, in large lies. If he were a barrista, he'd shut down Starbucks with one store without selling a single cup. Work was his art. A pigeon typhoon once arose in Central Park From the sheer number landing at his feet With pieces of bread Claiming the largest storm in NY, Sept. 2012. The golden arches was his first Two attempts at throwing boomerangs. The third was at St. Louis. It's fair to say he's won. To him, fighting for peace Was like fucking for virginity. Ever since he's never had sex, But some say Poe was his biological

A virgin piece of silver and welt wood solemn and square,    four inches apart as a hand from the ear by the judge each oath pound the gavel down a nail every gunshot horned a real echo to the hollowed pine trees, just so far across the oldest river where cross Men wade and tread afriend to its black, vaulted banks. A coroner's tools as simple town gems nightly tapping the nape of lost fears leaked between the hand and ears clasped.

I.  "Art Museum" modern persian miniature on white leaflets; a maze for lab ants. II. "Kaiser in Paris" a deadbeat in front de Franche-Comté; patents for toilet paper. III. "in Dingle" the earliest casualties drowned at night; driftwood in wilted, Irish fields. IV. "The Mistake" August 27 2012, an elephant awoke, in Tampa, Florida.

I'm not a cheater, I'm a poet                                                             I see everyone point pencils to their foreheads backwards for a few etches jotting a capital of letters as brokers for A's a list grows on of cheating things, so unelaborate tranced, soon to sink from reality. But select in brief what written noise is worth the effort, interrupt yourself hesitate, and you have your poet Voilá! leave early finish school and walk to your real work bumming on words like meaning, making frame to S.Dali's daily siesta blind or focused, you'll nail three ends and utility will somehow be lost between th

It was back alley quiet fume an unnoticed miracle stew a dream world crack in Gough's once starry night, on the floor the pen hole leak of black noir found destiny chose its battles the silent crevasse that broke no ground, soot, dead dove feathers lit time into thirty-two past twelve, and counted faintly the unchanging canvas of space unmarked, sitting, watching fiddling the decision to move deep traces of unearthed and virgin city stifle across    just    the way