Latelies. As in, today.

(improv)
i glare at the
glint of wintersunshine
between brown, wet leaves

not to glare intentionally,
but because
it hurts my eyes, and
i want to
still look anyway.

i wonder

if i am looking
at the sunshine or the leaves
on those bonebare carbon trees.

and, dependent on which,
do i appreciate the one only
for how it shows the other?

i love it, need it
twice.

find me your definition
hidden
in the thing you're

defining.


headpoem dumping
catch clips the
nonsense flutters
between ears, behind
eyes and
below hair, not

a lack of seriousness,
it is non sense because i can't
identify it with

five things.

the way Jeff Buckley
will sing
and not say a word, the way
his guitar sounds like
three guitars

or not even a
guitar at all.

i can be eight octaves, i
can covers things come
before.

sushi day, yes. new
place no more
brown avocado, no

waitresses who know
my name, who glare
when i don't

tip the usual, tip
big money.

i am, after all
just a student.

today the sun is out
and the leaves on the trees
are still dead.

are still useless.
still hang.

they spurn and bathe
in a meal
they wouldn't have refused
if the were still

green, were still
too new to know

better.

makes me think of
that punk who told

finchy she was
childish,
these new kids

who make moon a mockery
of cliched and
fetid metaphor, of

unfeeling feelings.

of OMG i r not a gud typer!!!1!!11!one!

i get more dubious
every autumn; my upper lip
curls quicker,

i find more less things
than i did,
i belittle belittling things,
not even with a word, but
a glance, a skimmed

click, delete.

reading and age
make me pretentious.
make me pretend

i know what
all this adult fuckup
means.