white noise

I asked a man I know about the train track
of belief-- asked him because,
through white noise and copper wires,
I read wisdom he gained rather unhappily.
Asked him what to do when believing stops,
a train with no more track, rusted out,
obsolete.
And the folly was in my question, sent out to
one dear stranger, that pitted place inside grasping
grasping, grasping
beyond voids, valleys, souls, bodies,
when will those fingers be still, filled?
The man said (and I thought of him looking
past a desk into a yard and beyond that, the sea)
said, it's shit.
But you have to sit with the emptiness
and let it speak. So here I sit,
where he once sat, this well-worn place.
And the emptiness keeps making noise
like a stomach growling. 

the last moon

Clittering clushing jaws
and the beastly maws
suck a pipe of tobacco
out of blistering doors

Magiclous mournish decay
(what a very fine day!)
and a yo-ho-dee-do
for one unfulfilled road

Tattlebone in pheromones
drop of parasitic kerosene
--for the smoke off the river
--to the stink off the hide

Loverly lidless ladies
on their amble through hades
found a dried up macaroon,
shot down the last-ever moon

winterously

winterously
look at me
what can you see?
my shivering, frolicking
swarm of a song

pretty one,
my winter sun
my darling gun
blue, mute, and wild
white winterous child

winter storm
sweet first-born
hellish groan
and parting sigh--
interminable goodbye.