For many years now
alongside me
an innominate presence
has companioned my steps.
It first came to me
unexpectedly.
Did l unknowingly call to it,
invite it into my mind?
Now I would not escape it
for a single moment.
It is not the epitome of Right
or a truth seeking angel.
It is that being
that saved me
from your wrong opinions,
your self-delusions,
the lies you tell to yourself,
and it guards now
only my own cant, humbug
and say-so.
Stretching out my crooked frame
I once again
see the odds are good enough
to join all those other nameless beings
who populate the internet
with ink and echoes.
In a dormant room
a laptop is singing quietly to itself.
Its calulating clock brain
ticking off moments
on its fingerless hands
waiting for the pitter patter
of my existential fingers to arrive.
A green plant (grown from seed)
is still sleeping.
I forgot what kind it is, it has no name
but against all odds
it flourishes in a dream-like way.
All night
posts from the innominate or,
the non-de-plumed
have been arriving from out of nowhere.
Against all odds, ink, and echoes
wait for me in a dreaming kind of way
for a reply, or at least an answer
to whatever, whom or why?
Against all odds
I live to breath-in the daylight
that filters through dark curtains.
The green plant (grown from seed)
is still sleeping.
I forgot what kind it is, it has no name
but against all odds
it flourishes in a dream-like way.
In a dormant room
a laptop is singing quietly to itself.
in a distant land
paws pitter patter over moonbeams.
Stretching out my crooked frame
I once again
see the odds are good enough
to join all those other nameless beings
who populate my life
with ink and echoes.
Dormice scurry around brown teapots.
Jackdaws caw and whistle
looking for something to steal
while we, the innominate,
are not looking.
The apple fell already bitten upon,
a mossy soil coated where the tooth-cleaved.
Soon grubs worked their way out
of the pith
creating a teeming mulch.
Adam had fallen asleep again,
in his gut overripe grapes fermented
turning now to drunken snores.
The apple was changing, morphing,
the earth had gone into labor.
This had not happened in paradise before,
this was self-regeneration,
the copulation of dirt with air.
It was the flood of the moon;
Eve squatted. Her body was changing,
tidal rains washed her blood,
travail begot a tillage of arousal.
Her belly swelled,
instinctively Adam built a nest
of straw, green shoots and saliva.
She grew large, gravid, a tad snappish.
she sensed deep in her belly
that this coming birth
would be both sour and dewy,
an innominate delivery for sure
riddled with good and bad seeds,
and she knew not what to call it.
Always the plastic containers,
leftovers maturing stacked in gelid wastes
where pork slumbers among the peppers,
chicken spooning with onions and cabbage.
The polar remains of once tropical meals
transformed into undocumented containers
to be opened far too late.
A curried hash so ad hoc that it could be
the flotsam of a ravenous hurricane.
Zipper bags squelch under groping hands,
carefully wrapped comestible debris
speaks to the eyes more clearly
than any warning sign could.
Dinners and snacks survive
as half-eaten life-forms
buried behind a white doored crypt.
Some, a few only
may be resurrected, only to be boiled
into innominate concoctions
by a cook who once loved them
way too much.
flower in hair
dolled up
flower in hair
no make-up
flower in hair -
fair hair
dark hair
soft
curly
long hair – shorter
all color
peony
rose
frangipani
orchid
blooms innominate
some can only be pronounced
in the language of flowers
in hair
all these have legs
all these girls
are women with flowers
the women are showing you
what all this means to you
it is something
the women know that
they have flowers in their hair
to show that
flowers need no pro-nouns
they know the names
you have yet to learn
unless
you have a flower in your hair also
long legs
shorter legs
grey hair
fake hair
strange hair
tangled hair
the flowers do not care
the flowers do not care
In a turning acre
the high dark silhouette
of a river-hawk.
Wings sharply-etched,
now it dips, and light reveals
each fine feather
as a clear signature.
I looked and saw
the carving flame of its life
branded, and stamped indelible.
A bolt of breath, a hawkish tinder
clearly reflected on the mirror-mere.
And if
the life of this world
is born of fire,
then this morning
as I looked over my shoulder,
I spied the swift innominate
unfurl its talons
to seize
a wriggling, silver
moment.
The apple fell to earth. It was bitten through
it rolled; mossy soil coated the tooth-cleaved part.
Already grubs were working their way out
of the pith creating a teeming mulch.
Adam had fallen asleep yet again.
the overripe grapes fermenting in his guts
turning to drunken snores.
It was the flood of the moon.
Eve squatted behind a mulberry bush
wishing she were more fair and slim
like the angels in her dreams. Her body was changing,
tidal rains washed her blood
and that travail begot spawning buds,
the tillage of arousal.
The apple was changing, dissolution morphing
into beauty; the earth had gone into labor.
This had not happened in paradise before,
this was self-regeneration, death, and life,
the copulation of dirt with air.
Eve’s belly swelled, growing as round and burnished
as an autumn apple. Instinctively Adam built a nest
of straw, green shoots and saliva.
She grew large, gravid, and snappish,
stamping her feet impatiently;
this birth would be a paradigm of progeny to come,
a dewy innominate offering
quilted from angelic and demon seeds
and she knew not what to call it.
Always the plastic containers,
leftovers maturing like potted gardens
stacked in gelid wastes
where pigs are plumped with peppers,
goat spooned into onions and cabbage.
The polar remains of once tropical meals
transformed into undocumented river craft.
A curried hash so ad hoc that it could be
the flotsam of a slaughtering hurricane.
Zipper bags squelch under my groping hand;
stomach turning, carefully wrapped debris
speak to my fingertips
more clearly than any danger sign could.
Dinners and snacks survive
as half-eaten life-forms
buried behind a white doored crypt.
Some, a few only
may be resurrected, only to be boiled
into innominate concoctions
by a cook who once loved them
far too much.