Thor, the Norse God of Thunder, had a hammer named Mjölnir. Mjölnir was considered a fierce weapon that could level mountains and summon lightning with every blow. In this poetry blog, every Thursday, (Thor’s Day), Mjölnir will forge only song - sing of the mysteries and beauties of the world.

Thursday, August 28, 2014

HYPOTHESIS 

Don’t pretend you don’t have one,
or brush it off
as a sound-a-like:
hypotenuse, hippopotamus
or hippocampus.
No one will be fooled.
Least of all you.

You got pockets full of ‘em,
like everybody.
Attics and arks worth.

This one is no crystal ball,
no decoder ring.
It’s just like the rest of 'em:
a ham among pigs,
a locust in a swarm.
Another thought among thoughts.

Don’t go polishing this or that one’s bald head.
Don’t cart any one of them around in a palanquin.
Don’t.
And do not treat one or another of them as currency,
‘cause you might just go broke,
ending up belly-up on a Black Tuesday,
or buried like Bernie
beneath your own Ponzi scheme.

Better just to get used to knowing that
a hypothesis is just a hypothesis.
If you can assume that position,
and commit to it down to your hippocampus,
well, then you’re free of triangulation.
Throw away the protractor, fuck the hypotenuse!
Send your assumption floating down the Zambezi.
It's just one more hippopotamus.





Thursday, August 21, 2014


SHORELINE

no ocean
sky

rock
or bridge

no horizon
just

gull cries
without the gulls

the sound of the surf
without a visible sea—

and a mist
so thick

enveloping
why not

think
I am

we are
walking

along
Soul's shoreline






Thursday, August 14, 2014

APPLE OF MY EYE

You come to me
like a translation,

a shadow,
a wing,

a promise,
a seed—a seed

that you plant in the darkest part of me,
where an orchard is sure to grow—

from which I will make a cider of light,
an elixir called Love.


Thursday, August 7, 2014

PURPLE

Not a prolix epistle to God.
The glossy sheen of a nightshade

is aubergine, orchid flouncing its fertility,
amethyst glaring at a drunkard's glass.

Neither nobility nor gloom.
Look at the Jacaranda flowering

in Nepal, the Thai widow
mourning in the February rain.

Purple does not care about indigestion 
or chakras, but remembers 

signing imperial edicts with amaranthine ink, 
or standing shell-shocked before the paparazzi

with a heart-shaped badge
bleeding in its hand.

Purple is not clairvoyant.
Look at Wagner

writing operas, plucking arias
from mauve drapes.