Michael Bernstein


                    bird in the gutter
fell a hand
                    mesmeric windows
the wires all tapped
                    yr fate is uncertain
a loose place to drown
                    light up in yr tethers
the cold,ruddy sky
                    in tiny places
a spell is at work

13 in the glow

these films will shred up the screen
sleep you back to '94
to the crystal hills

the concerto drowns,swirling
in it mobs of empty ears
let loose on the surf

throughout this barrage of names
something gestates,purple-black
it could get us all

insects dripping from the bars
the heartbeat,unstoppable
booming in the cell

poems come via freight,3rd class
poems come like the walking dead
moving far too slow

tiny anvils in the air
rain down just before i wake
in this castle slum

static's headlock bringing tears
abstract sky and crawling flame
just beneath yr tongue

the orchestration,seamless
the explosions,fantastic
center-stage in Space

we case out the tundra scene
now booming w/saxophones
compass dead in hand

the box blows sparks and hisses
none of us know why its here
all of us so poor

numerical sequences
tiny strands of purple hair
stroll across yr eyes

supernova imminent
there's no time to naval gaze
on the scarecrow's clock

massive luminescent hearts
beaming supersonic love
down into our hands


valley where the flames still lick
taste the contours of yr hand

where machines seize up and fail
where the spell hangs,unspoken
where the data sinks,useless
i hear yr name hum like a storm

e-mail the poet at michaelrbernstein@hotmail.com
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