#cantoku

[cureallpoeming]

aden

canto 25.06.05.100

the bald man the bald man in the Celtics jacket said still a free country, aint it? the bald man thought it over and then laughed, a humorless double ha-ha the bald man stopped the bald man had some of the characteristics of an unexploded grenade the bald man looked reasonable wouldn't want to be ya the bald man replied, unsmiling the bald guy was now only a shape merged with the shadows

canto 25.06.06.101

this is it the wrack of clouds and smoke the spectacle of illuminated moonlight

a smoking hole in the ground deja vu at its disorienting worst

canto 25.06.07.102 (sijo #2, i think)

there was a pleasant smell of furniture polish and leather, the whisper of something, there and gone, in the daylight;      no way of knowing the rat was out of its cage, running and biting

canto 25.06.08.103 (cantoku #17)

harsh, unsparing pink color only a child could bottle

King, Stephen. Cell. New York; Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp. 87-99.

[cureallpoeming]

cinema date

canto 20.11.1.83

many munching closet carrying toddler toasters

smiling smarter thinking together after all

beautiful beautiful

canto 20.11.2.84 cantoku #14

blanket on the grass haze of dandelion fluff        Zarathustra cried

canto 20.11.3.84 cantoku # 15 and 16

with the racing clouds        pirates and buried treasure        banished to the night

climb the nirvana of round-the-clock cable news,        microwave popcorn

canto 20.11.4.86

they got road atlases they were traveling north they decided to crash near a field

they met people shooting first and asking questions afterward

they turned south in a hurry and they moved on

King, Stephen. Cell. New York: Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp. 157-163

[cureallpoeming]

emaciated yang

canto 15.17.19.66

the sun spoke in a shooting blue light sounding sicker than ever

as the sun patted his... you know two dozen worker bees headed for the shattered greenhouses to dispose of the bodies

his face pale, tired and far older than its years

canto 15.17.20.67

foragers, point drivers, academy stoops; refugees of the afternoon bustle, exposed as an ant in a bowl of rice;

    settled, empty, lathered,     coffee-table-sized hymnal to a vacant flock.

they wandered past the fieldstone pillars, the sound very loud in the stillmness, punched in the neck, a looping overhand blow in the sunwarmed stillness of a flight of stairs;

there was no wind, no discernable draft, but the papers, fluttering, had begun to circle lazily toward the apartment complexes;

the tension went out of the air, pausing long enough to show no interest in the departed;

armageddon was too strong a word for it.

canto 15.17.21.68

she was gone

she glanced at his watch then said in a small voice

   "maybe it's best    I don't know some things"

she ran cheeks flushed eyes wide

canto 15.17.22.69 (cantoku #12)

floating new age crap    that squelchy loop-steady march    like pigeons putzing