these poems are not math. i'm sorry for that.

(as the ascent beckoned)
1.
i saw a white-haired man escort a white-haired woman
from a catholic church with large wood doors.
the cross on the brown sign outside was white
and the inside was lit bright with gold light.
i sighted one tiny sliver of the life
of this woman and man with hair of silver-white.

2.
what the hell good does this shit do me? what meaning meant it to extrapolate? am i like the reaper with his scythe sheathing bits of golden meaning into bales or something? do i pile golden bits around me until this obscure opacity of flesh collapses under the pressure? death? sex? the red and the black of meat and bone dark?

one angstrom of catastrophe does not make a man culpable for his lovecraftian weavings on paper or in plastic. it must be several. and i have a paucity. folliculous!

3.
it is a push or a pull against what must be death.

(the sound of waves).
(clarice, my delicacy, clarice)

it must be thus, or we're left with love.
and--christ, and nothing but.

4.
AS THE ASCENT BECKONED, BITCHES
AS THE ASCENT BECKONED
AS THE ASCENT BECKONED
AS THE ASCENT BECKONED, BITCHES.

5.
spendthrift.

brown head against plastic desktop.

with irony as my mistress.

i wanted to write a dark poem.

it's a constant tautness, isn't it? isn't it? isn't it?