Dale Jensen

Who Says Words with My Mouth

he used shreds of the werewolf novel

detached helpless twined

yes the ropes under your feet

a whirlwind and god becomes risky

a door pushed open

sacrifice must be divine

try to floor on that

when pieces of detective

you the throb of

looking for you

let me read you eyes

out of touch

i don’t remember any

so let me read you mystery

you don’t need any extraneous wind

i’m balancing on my breath

you can sense it your flesh

when your eyes are closed

we faced each other cold and blinking inside the doorway

sacrifice must be desire

only two dimensions necessary

to fall

somewhere an inanimate telephone

another blast of wind and even shrouds become risky

mirror blood inside my heart

horizon of idiolect

hanging behind my fine-toothed wall

you the throb of

Fell

mo red ecre pit

we real lyg o ne

the ni drea m ed

then i dre a med

theyf e ll

int o myh a nds

What Did Like What

fiftyish she wore a green automated sprinkler

so tightly that babbling dogs

were the only helicopter pattern

how we got on together by string

okay he’d read the letter to himself

it said of some sort some sort of sense

were those kids at play?

i’d find lots of afternoons up north

the road broke into flight and then

the whole subject should be piped in

the murder weapon a shift in velocity

you’d be fat by citing place to go

beyond the windows beyond the dune

difficult to resist the great altruist

which is sometimes resistance itself

he realized the killer was

a brick wall opposite the fourth floor

the police station between the library was

the conflicting voices in his head

the solution fell asleep in his arms

the story closes now with a dinner mint hot on his skin

they all got together and discussed the case

i’m not sure instead no what did like what

the lawn still roaming outside

promise mowing under your shoes

Rifled With Every Evidence (after HP Lovecraft)

shells gradually shaped unveiled

no grave well shaped where

took up his old friend time

when the head comes out of it

there was left a space of exposed brickwork

the workmen he appeared seemed to cease

unexplained began

bid hold century-recalling mirror

to grasp with astonishment

where no grave home

time had been rifled with every evidence

frequent sallies hid listening

pallor proved better then any verbal agreement

the doctor with hesitancy windows steamed

the old dark house into the mist

ghouls grave the vengeance and rediscovered

older day creature in the mountains of transylvania

the same body or possession with it

a cache dream he is

small gradually about the mad part

not been kept amiss of fine bluish gray dust

your ghosts gathered with other times

the wonderful sunlight singing

Barbie Watch

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Dale Jensen was born in Oakland, California, graduated from the University of California at Berkeley in 1971, and received a master’s degree in experimental psychology from the University of Toronto in 1973, with which he said goodbye to academia forever. In 1974, he embarked on a career with Social Security that lasted until 1999, when he took early retirement. He lives in Berkeley and is married to the poet Judy Wells and has seven books and five chapbooks out.