Sunday, January 10, 2010

Paul Ebenkamp


Dead to the air,
sitting there

an hour from now.
What’s afterthought.


That amber would turn
on fossil was obvious
thought I from an income

concussion across proper channels.
Looking through random eyelets, I found
a law to the worsening dream,
a matter of timing
scattered tightly into vast blanks
that became seams.

That wakefulness would bound
past instruction,
leaving us to act the restless,
decadent courier

dusting out of earshot for the buried deed—
that a surface, what
we cut up, sprouts half the time
this is taking

Paul Ebenkamp lives and works in Berkeley CA.