Dabbler's Son

there'll be a reckoning

and some of this reasoning will pass

bumble according to the lamb

as accurately as lamplight

who will hope to curate these works

that apply only to the waking core

to their imprinted beats

the tailor of the jews on the hill

a rolling out of historical lists

and it will become foxy

the witness fixed in amber

found in the interstices of memory

you are my drowning acceptance

how it felt to cuddle that unborn

lidless jars robbed of contents

do we all accept curio as closure

or resume when play is leaned on

isn’t a stream a mere deviate

do these masters’ remains float

on the face the one un-oxidized book

bears the likeness of desire a cafe

where the monopolies claim the idlers

purchase as a sense of kill reward in milk





my chair is the ground upon which I rest

the ground does not exit out beneath it

I can laze here in the gale force calm

and read of the actions of women in veils

the cute slogans printed on bibs

received without question

but receipt of a nonissue is detainment

the stream seems clear near these stones

like the nymphomaniacal clan

waiting for their moment to rule

they may still be too tall to exist

with the water the air the earth

in the purity of their apparatus

the necessity of removal or renewal

but the movement of the water its control

it relinquishes for the sole vertical bible

under a small temporary installation

of dead beautiful leaves of apocrypha

I am in no position

the thought to sever is another thought

too severe

there are cables and sights of wonder

herbs of blue and vining living lights engulf my feet



at every step and so I speed inert