AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL MYSTERY
Observe, among the German sunbathers,
A family resemblance,
How grossmutter donates
Slender skeletons to all
The females downstream.
Looking at their faces,
Her kite-shaped jawline
Is repeated as if it were die-cutÂ
into paper in a printer's shop.
I’m hoping my daughter or granddaughter
Can organize my life, which I can't
Organize while I live it.Â
I’m talking about all the papers,
Which threaten like a river to sweep her away.
The story of my life,
If I don’t write it, will fall to her.
She’s meant to include herself
In the empty spots I started to illustrate
But left blank.
Meanwhile there is a type of bookworm,
Which only feeds on mystery novels,
Eating from the last page backward,
Solution first, chapter one last.
It mistakes my autobiography for its next dinner.
So with those family members who inherit my mystery,
I put any and all descriptions of their faces at the beginning.
2D CHURCH
In the Church of Two Dimensions,Â
the z-axis    is the index     of all depth of doubt.
I don't know what to tell you,
How to position yourself in relation to it.
Clinging to beliefs    "as is"   Â
would be like
rock-climbing   up   tidal waves,
Holding onto outcroppingsÂ
of     liquid surface area.
My mind can't render it for you     beyond this point.
I source you the code, Â Â Â Â you use it
To interpolate    a crystal dome    of content,
And either it twinkles apart and collapsesÂ
onto felt tabletops for you     or it doesn't.
Scared of having ideas without abilityÂ
to give them      a  jellyfish's partsÂ
to     propel     through     water.Â
Propulsion would mean connection.
Moving the poetic lines     in spaceÂ
to link up with other ones.
Dreaming up something to makeÂ
all     the poem's flexors     cohere.
To find the one lette    r   that, when
r   epeated twice elsewhereÂ
in the text, Â Â Â will verify that it is evenÂ
a font. Â Â Â Â
Othe   r   wiseÂ
it could have been     raw    hand
   writing but for
Script-to-font apprehension
Cloud-to-face apprehension
in the backyard      on a mild day.
the breeze   and the sequence   Â
of the clouds modulating above,
Filtering      the sunlightÂ
into dots    and    dashes,Â
Morse code of nature.
I want someone    whose face comes closer     Â
into focus like tempered sunlight       embodiesÂ
the edge
That I'm concealing in myself
Living close to the confluence.
GUILT-PANGS OF THE DREAM ADULTERERS
Guilt-pangs of the dream adulterers
Forgetting about the conscious breach
That ended their marriage years ago.
The cuckold outside the thought bubble
Can’t see in, can’t watch them go to dine
At the restaurant in the candle-whipped dark.
To get there the couple drives in reverse
Down a narrow alley, careless of impeding
Anyone needing to go forward.
Sleep is when the encoding happens.
Her dream image: a mirage so thorough
In scope it resembles in every way a legit memory.
Her concrete portrait always flees in tiny runnels
But the mirage is patient, solid for him to see
After a decade, two images compared.
He gets another chance, the man allowed to walk
The night-path twice, the first time
With broken monocle, the second time: repaired.Â
These are great. Love the bookworm