Be still this heart, quiet still-
a breath, a ghost. These are
words
only words. Hands
touchhold (still words, still)
lips
teeth
tongue, yes
words only words-
alchemized.
Deep and deeper still. Taste, yes,
feel. Christ.
Christ or god or stars. Come down, come
down
to dirt, to body, feeltaste
touch. Make this
real, surreal.
Transient,
I know.
No one
gives a fuck out here
beneath the sky and leavesandrain.
Just take
thisnow, make
now
me/my
aching reason to be here,
this hungry
bodysoul.
6.23.18
Sunday, July 8, 2018
Accountabliity
Imagine
that the hands were the smallest and in the digging
found nothing and so much, too much,
like you- the thickest to dig through, the hardest, the thing that
broke
the things too much. Nothing but broken every where
and it was all
torn apart, so
torn apart. Like you- you too, all tornandbroken
apart. And here I stand surrounded by so much nothing, so many
broken everything that was
ours. I am standing here, a numb child who didn’t fucking mean to,
but still, my dumb hands are empty
and they are covered in dirt.
6.29.18
found nothing and so much, too much,
like you- the thickest to dig through, the hardest, the thing that
broke
the things too much. Nothing but broken every where
and it was all
torn apart, so
torn apart. Like you- you too, all tornandbroken
apart. And here I stand surrounded by so much nothing, so many
broken everything that was
ours. I am standing here, a numb child who didn’t fucking mean to,
but still, my dumb hands are empty
and they are covered in dirt.
6.29.18
Free Ride
Just
because I can doesn’t mean I
should because I can, you know,
and even if I (yes) wanted to I should
n’t and
the moon (again with the moon) does the thing it
always
does but it’s
so bright, and all the things it touches(me) are fuckingstars. Windows
down I am forever always inthisfast
car, feeling I could be someone be someone be some
one
Some
One: whoareyou and whyareyouhere questions
that don’t matter in this night right now you are
notanything
anyone
nowhere
but here in the fastcar (I brought you and bring you
everywhere.)
6.29.18
should because I can, you know,
and even if I (yes) wanted to I should
n’t and
the moon (again with the moon) does the thing it
always
does but it’s
so bright, and all the things it touches(me) are fuckingstars. Windows
down I am forever always inthisfast
car, feeling I could be someone be someone be some
one
Some
One: whoareyou and whyareyouhere questions
that don’t matter in this night right now you are
notanything
anyone
nowhere
but here in the fastcar (I brought you and bring you
everywhere.)
6.29.18
2208
If I touch it only in the dark of night
maybe I can say (I lie) that it isn’t real,
that you aren’t (neveralways were) there
and your mouth is not a cavern into which I fall
maybe I can say (I lie) that it isn’t real,
that you aren’t (neveralways were) there
and your mouth is not a cavern into which I fall
over and over
because your wordskisses are cottonfuckingcandy dissolve, dissolve
because your wordskisses are cottonfuckingcandy dissolve, dissolve
not real
not real, not
tangible like flesh, your flesh, not real, not the way I like to touch you
yourfaceyourhair.
You are a moon, a shining moon, way away in the night, far away and out of reach.
I look away, you burn bright, too bright then blind.
My feet like the earthsolid in the sunshine, away from the bright of the moon, or
the moon at midday like a phantom, imagined, it is not real, not real.
The darkness on my skin unwinds in me the serpentheatfleshseeking animal, animal that will
yourfaceyourhair.
You are a moon, a shining moon, way away in the night, far away and out of reach.
I look away, you burn bright, too bright then blind.
My feet like the earthsolid in the sunshine, away from the bright of the moon, or
the moon at midday like a phantom, imagined, it is not real, not real.
The darkness on my skin unwinds in me the serpentheatfleshseeking animal, animal that will
devour.
You don’t know the will in
me that tiesbindsrestrains and keeps me from devouring
yourskin and making youyourbody
mine.
6.14.2018
Breakfast
I cracked the eggs and made the griddle hot
I threw the shells on the floor.
They’re fragile, you know. And they break
upon impact with hard surfaces,
or hands, like my hands,
imaginary on your imaginary throat.
They’re fragile, you know. And they break
upon impact with hard surfaces,
or hands, like my hands,
imaginary on your imaginary throat.
I once dared a man to swallow a boiled egg whole
and it lodged in his throat.
But he always fucked around, so instead of helping him
I laughed.
He lived.
But not without knowing I almost let him die.
The broken shells on the floor punctured my foot and drew blood.
About blood: there is always more.
And when the wounds healed and closed, the shells remained embedded in my skin
and pained me when I walked.
I asked myself- who was imprisoning whom?
10.2017
and it lodged in his throat.
But he always fucked around, so instead of helping him
I laughed.
He lived.
But not without knowing I almost let him die.
The broken shells on the floor punctured my foot and drew blood.
About blood: there is always more.
And when the wounds healed and closed, the shells remained embedded in my skin
and pained me when I walked.
I asked myself- who was imprisoning whom?
10.2017
The Tourists
Write down the name of the first thing you see.
an acorn;
an egg;
a bus full of tourists hanging from a cliff
an egg;
a bus full of tourists hanging from a cliff
Think next of why you went on vacation in the first place.
When you’re dangling from a long yellow jalopy
over the edge of a cliff
I guess it makes sense to run-
to bust through the nearest emergency exit.
10.2017
Permafrost
Drowned in warm water
plump flesh, and supple
Did you know it would be this way?
That we just wouldn’t die?
This is me, shoving tectonic plates in places they don’t belong:
I make the earth quake
I throw mountains out of nothing.
This is the way I justify my geological mayhem.
Art is always illusion.
It snows all spring.
What, then, is satisfy?
Your dialogue gets me dizzy.
You can’t move away from the cold once it curls inside you.
You freeze- bones first, flesh later.
You grope toward heat.
What, then, is satisfy to the mouth of a corpse?
We choke on dirt.
We tell lies. We need heat.
We draw water to the bath.
plump flesh, and supple
Did you know it would be this way?
That we just wouldn’t die?
This is me, shoving tectonic plates in places they don’t belong:
I make the earth quake
I throw mountains out of nothing.
This is the way I justify my geological mayhem.
Art is always illusion.
It snows all spring.
What, then, is satisfy?
Your dialogue gets me dizzy.
You can’t move away from the cold once it curls inside you.
You freeze- bones first, flesh later.
You grope toward heat.
What, then, is satisfy to the mouth of a corpse?
We choke on dirt.
We tell lies. We need heat.
We draw water to the bath.
11.2.17
The Voodoo Lady
So I went to the voodoo lady and she
gave to me orris root for love eternal that
would not die and now this love that
will not die is a rope at our throats from
which we hang and sway, necks intact, we
cannot die and I didn’t eat no orris root.
So I went back to the voodoo lady and saidgave to me orris root for love eternal that
would not die and now this love that
will not die is a rope at our throats from
which we hang and sway, necks intact, we
cannot die and I didn’t eat no orris root.
what now? Spit it out
she said.
2016
So What Now?
There is something about happiness that arouses my suspicions;
that relinquishing my skepticism offers open invitation to be suckered in
and prodded alongside the grinning masses toward some sort of pseudo-Nirvana.
Alone on the stoop out back, my fingers grow icy from the bottle in my hand, and the wind claws at me, harsh, but reliable. The darkness strides by like a rude stranger who doesn’t look up when I say hello; lowers its head further instead, pretending to inspect the dirty concrete. The oblivion is validating and I feel the power of my own volition rising from my legs, through my chest, to the bullseye in my brain.
It wasn’t long ago that he convinced me to marry. I didn’t see the point in doing so, and so he made the point that there was an equal non-point in not doing so, and so I did. The baby was next and we birthed it together in a tub on the living room floor. Because this—this was something I was going to get right.
Then my father died without a will, and my brother said that it was only right that we bury him, even though I thought the idea of decomposing against the process of preservation was obscene. It was important, he said, because when the Lord comes to save us, we need to be there waiting.
That night I had a dream—the kind of dream that you hope is a dream before you even remember you’re still asleep. A giant meteor blew through the ozone and crashed in the backyard of the house across the street. Then, as I watched through the window, there came a second, only this time the impact made a great cracking sound, like overhead thunder that wants to snap your bones, and I watched, frozen, as the smoke rolled in and the earth began to crumble.
In the startled sweat of night, I reached over to seek warm skin. I swallowed hard, and realized that swallowing is an action performed only by the living. Then I swallowed again, just to be certain.
2009
that relinquishing my skepticism offers open invitation to be suckered in
and prodded alongside the grinning masses toward some sort of pseudo-Nirvana.
Alone on the stoop out back, my fingers grow icy from the bottle in my hand, and the wind claws at me, harsh, but reliable. The darkness strides by like a rude stranger who doesn’t look up when I say hello; lowers its head further instead, pretending to inspect the dirty concrete. The oblivion is validating and I feel the power of my own volition rising from my legs, through my chest, to the bullseye in my brain.
It wasn’t long ago that he convinced me to marry. I didn’t see the point in doing so, and so he made the point that there was an equal non-point in not doing so, and so I did. The baby was next and we birthed it together in a tub on the living room floor. Because this—this was something I was going to get right.
Then my father died without a will, and my brother said that it was only right that we bury him, even though I thought the idea of decomposing against the process of preservation was obscene. It was important, he said, because when the Lord comes to save us, we need to be there waiting.
That night I had a dream—the kind of dream that you hope is a dream before you even remember you’re still asleep. A giant meteor blew through the ozone and crashed in the backyard of the house across the street. Then, as I watched through the window, there came a second, only this time the impact made a great cracking sound, like overhead thunder that wants to snap your bones, and I watched, frozen, as the smoke rolled in and the earth began to crumble.
In the startled sweat of night, I reached over to seek warm skin. I swallowed hard, and realized that swallowing is an action performed only by the living. Then I swallowed again, just to be certain.
2009
Hush
Angels hover, lantern-strung
above the stillness of our bed.
Their whispers echo in the dark
and weave our dreams with cryptic threads.
Your eyes in silence lie awake,
they reach out and amuse me,
haunt me and disown me
a thousand times
a thousand times
you've heard it all before.
Midnight has grown tedious
but shadows make good reasons
to linger in monotony.
Don't forget to dance.
Daylight is a wicked season.
Morning threatens
scorching fragile lenses
burning iris wide awake.
Your slumber, dear, so soft,
your numbered days ticking off
one by one
one by one
your footprint (static) on the moon.
2006
above the stillness of our bed.
Their whispers echo in the dark
and weave our dreams with cryptic threads.
Your eyes in silence lie awake,
they reach out and amuse me,
haunt me and disown me
a thousand times
a thousand times
you've heard it all before.
Midnight has grown tedious
but shadows make good reasons
to linger in monotony.
Don't forget to dance.
Daylight is a wicked season.
Morning threatens
scorching fragile lenses
burning iris wide awake.
Your slumber, dear, so soft,
your numbered days ticking off
one by one
one by one
your footprint (static) on the moon.
2006
Nineteen
We’re on the train and she tells me her
heart is in my hands and mine
is beating because
her heart doesn’t look a damn thing like
a valentine. Instead it is this
horrible thing and purple and it
bleeds. I know
already that my hands are
not the right size for this fist apple (not
love) or if it were a bird it would be the
broken kind.
She doesn’t know that whatever it is she
wishes I would do I just can’t and what I
can (want to) do is climb inside of her
and lay my head down in the sticky dark.
I hate her eyes and love them, so ready
and she doesn’t know
that her face breaks my heart just a little bit
because I know that
my heart is beating, too,
because this is (not beautiful) one hell of a
misunderstanding.
10.10.11
10.10.11
The Confession
What you don’t know is this:
Your name rests in the bowl of my
tongue, smooth
and perfect, a salty round pebble. It
melts: a lozenge.
Tiny molecules that won’t hold still.
What I want to do is chew it up. I
want thick beef fibers
surrendering to the power of my hungry
jaw. I want your
cool gelato sweetness to make puddles
in my mouth, and
the piney gin sting of you to render
me dense and numb.
The word of your name has become
the invisible nucleus of a small world
of slow madness.
And I am the black space between white
galaxies.
9.18.11
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)