lately the asphalt at the round
was repaired with a fill-in
the new stuff is still wet
it sticks but doesn't stick
and has a little give when pressed
Last night's insomnia reading
Insomnia reading....
§81
Maiden in the mor lay,
In the mor lay,
Sevenyst fulle
Sevenist fulle.
Maiden in the mor lay,
In the mor lay,
Sevenistes fulle ant a day.
Welle was hire mete:
Wat was hire mete?
The primerole ant the,
The primerole ant the,
Welle was hire mete:
Wat was hire mete?
The primerole ant the violet.
Welle was hire dryng:
Wat was hire dryng?
The chelde water of the,
The chelde water of the,
Welle was hire dryng:
What was hire dryng?
The chelde water of the welle spring.
Welle was hire bour:
Wat was hire bour?
The red rose an te,
The red rose an te,
Welle was hire bour:
Wat was hire bour?
The rede rose an te lilie flour.
§82
Lulley, lulley, lully, lulley,
The fawcon hath born my mak away.
He bare hym up, he bare him down,
He bare hym into an orchard brown.
In that orchard ther was an hall,
That was hanged with purpill and pall.
And in that hall ther was a bede,
Hit was hangid with gold so rede.
And yn that bed ther lythe a knyght,
His wowndes bledyng day and nyght.
By that bedes side ther kneleth a may,
And she wepeth both nyght and day.
And by that bedes side ther stondith a ston,
"Corpus Christi" wretyn theron.
§83
Of on that is so fayr and bright,
Velud maris stella,
Brighter than the dayis light,
Parens et puella,
Ic crie to thee, thou se to me;
Levedy, preye thi sone for me,
Tam pia,
That ic mote come to thee,
Maria.
Levedi, flour of alle thing,
Rosa sine spina,
Thu bere Jhesu hevene king,
Gratia divina;
Of alle thu berst the pris,
Levedi, quene of parays,
Electa,
Mayde, milde Moder,
Es effecta.
Of kare, consell thou ert best,
Felix fecundata;
Of alle wery thou ert rest,
Mater honorata;
Bisek him with milde mod
That for ous alle sad is blod
In cruce,
That we moten komen til him
In luce.
Al this world was forlore
Eva peccatrice,
Tyl our Lord was ybore
De te genitrice:
With Ave it went away
Thuster nyth and comet the day
Salutis,
The welle springet hut of thee
Virtutis.
Wel he wot he is thi sone,
Ventre quem portasti;
He wyl nout werne thee thi bone,
Parvum quem lactasti.
So hende and so god he his
He havet brout ous to blis
Superni,
That haves hidut the foule put
Inferni.
The Weight
The Weight
What is it with the child abused and grown
What is it with the child abused and grown
that they keep heart and thought 'lone
was it the mother dead or the dead alive
looking backwards at the torture fingers
that held violent sway upon everything
Maybe its everything or maybe
If I hurt my children that way
The way you hurt us
I could see dying that way
I could see living that way
alone in a fifth-wheel trailer in the woods, head
laying back on a blue blanket, head laying back
in heroin and alcohol, and finally the heart stopped,
finally her heart stopped.
My mother's heart stopped, Olympia to the west.
Invisible Olympia of Indian jazz porn junkies,
dying in the woods. Maybe it was just n=1,
I never inquired as to your friends.
I hear I'm resili- I hear
reviled . I'm still here, but I'm not.
The distance between here and there closes,
reviled . I'm still here, but I'm not.
The distance between here and there closes,
the healthy mystic would use this magic to let it go
Its hard to let go of your hands
hold up your hands, let them go
see your fingers? they don't.
I remember crying as a child in fear
everyday that you were alive
I remember crying as a man that you were not
everyday that it occurs to me you were gone
was there something I didn't say
maybe another line of rephrased cliche
like maybe it was better this way
my mother in death healed of all her pain
released from a North America that kills Indigenous
women from the beginning,
like DL's sister CC, remember her,
raped, naked, and dying in a field
off the reservation, all for a night of dancing,
the way the police blamed her
you'd think she flaunted some sacred law
instead of a new pair of boots
criminal boots
because their little white dicks get hard
The worse pain is to write these things
and now part of my pain is swept away
in a world of White Supremacy that says
blood quantum and skin color
as if that's what hit me in the face
it was you, and I got it, I got that same hatred
from the same place, it hit me that way
when part of me believes you would have
anyway because that is what I must be
something small, to be hit,
because you were drinking and some
mad asshole shit on your scene.
Confessions, the light is on,
a confession, you're gone.
Twenty-one years gone and its Saturday
night all over again, a temporal transfer
back to that place, ah how to write a poetry
of intersection in a world of White Supremacy,
an underlying reason why my voice
is already spent.
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kefitzat_Haderech
The Rehabilitation and Retrial of Joan of Arc
Below are some film stills from my short film The Rehabilitation and Retrial of Joan of Arc, an experimental Super 8mm film with original music by myself.
We Are Three Percent Nitrogen By Mass (Sunday)
What do I do
when my love never fades
For you? For
you I only have memory.
The smile of
one kind face in the days of
Only one
kind face. Why does love not fade?
Why can love
not ease itself from today?
Why can we
not lift our thinking out of
Our heads
and maybe even compost it…
I would
worry about the nitrogen,
Likely. I’m sure
my thoughts are of released
Nitrogen,
that is just more evidence
Of a recent
decomposition.
There is no another. Thoughts invaded
Now array themselves into new arrays.
There is now absence,
one has gone away.
There is no another. Thoughts invaded
Now array themselves into new arrays.
There is now absence,
one has gone away.
Three Poems from 2009 and 2010
Watching
We burned in
The war of Falls,
All around us,
Angels dropping
like flies;
I love what is still
All night, falling
In a walk through
All the
broken
years of us
In polar distances of
The quiet
Lunch sounds
we make out of
difficult conversations,
talking a round desire.
Lessons drift into your soft muscle,
Eyes lost on the wooden beach,
Curvature and bubble shapes, mucus turning
you from pink to brown.
The war of Falls,
These broken wingless
Words, bridges
Left decaying in brown rust
slowly straying over old green paint
as the new constructions rise.
Only the curious will wonder
Why we were, and they will become
something few and rare.
Armless, dark eyes, brittle
flowers reduced to pigment
and videography.
I remember you even as I see you,
room, and moment,
alone, illuminated
runes, and evening shadows
covered in a yellow sodium
of memory,
just an elbow
on a green
cabinet, your eyes
backlight,
we never touched.
We burned.
The war of Falls,
All around us,
Angels dropping
like flies;
I love what is still
All night, falling
In a walk through
All the
broken
years of us
In polar distances of
The quiet
Lunch sounds
we make out of
difficult conversations,
talking a round desire.
Lessons drift into your soft muscle,
Eyes lost on the wooden beach,
Curvature and bubble shapes, mucus turning
you from pink to brown.
The war of Falls,
These broken wingless
Words, bridges
Left decaying in brown rust
slowly straying over old green paint
as the new constructions rise.
Only the curious will wonder
Why we were, and they will become
something few and rare.
Armless, dark eyes, brittle
flowers reduced to pigment
and videography.
I remember you even as I see you,
room, and moment,
alone, illuminated
runes, and evening shadows
covered in a yellow sodium
of memory,
just an elbow
on a green
cabinet, your eyes
backlight,
we never touched.
We burned.
War Runs Across My Life
This digital world
lingers
and does not bring
us closer together.
I only see
my self with the help
of telescopes.
Every love song
reminds me of sadness,
every sad song
reminds me of a plastic
radion. When will this end?
We are torn apart,
slightly separated
by the presence
of conflict, bombs,
some scholar might say
the sweep
of world events;
yet it is back
to the feelings
of distance, the desolation
that you are
not here and may not
be, that causes
an unspoken anguish
I can share with no one.
And they say this digital world
brings us closer together,
"they", hmmm, who? who?
And yet when we talk,
I at night
and you
in the morning,
message by message,
it is only the distance
that is illuminated,
a trembling, quail distance.
I see these threads
unwinding finally,
back to a river in Vietnam,
a bear, a mountain,
drinking cold
too close to the mouth.
Sunlight breaks the horizon
water desert, brown
sand coming out of
your brown hair.
lingers
and does not bring
us closer together.
I only see
my self with the help
of telescopes.
Every love song
reminds me of sadness,
every sad song
reminds me of a plastic
radion. When will this end?
We are torn apart,
slightly separated
by the presence
of conflict, bombs,
some scholar might say
the sweep
of world events;
yet it is back
to the feelings
of distance, the desolation
that you are
not here and may not
be, that causes
an unspoken anguish
I can share with no one.
And they say this digital world
brings us closer together,
"they", hmmm, who? who?
And yet when we talk,
I at night
and you
in the morning,
message by message,
it is only the distance
that is illuminated,
a trembling, quail distance.
I see these threads
unwinding finally,
back to a river in Vietnam,
a bear, a mountain,
drinking cold
too close to the mouth.
Sunlight breaks the horizon
water desert, brown
sand coming out of
your brown hair.
Our Close Distance
When will I come home
And see that lamp in
Your flickering room?
What will you do, home
From the war? Sunlight
And summer ore, or
Bus stop and creeping
Mourning through the night before?
What will you do,
Bandaged in your skin?
I will drink lampwax
And leave terracotta dust,
My faith and wonder withering in
Shadows on couches and grass arenas;
Until a semblance of my substance
Emerges, resembling enough,
Just enough encaustic dust,
So you may trust your memory,
Unlock the door, and let me in
from this close distance.
And see that lamp in
Your flickering room?
What will you do, home
From the war? Sunlight
And summer ore, or
Bus stop and creeping
Mourning through the night before?
What will you do,
Bandaged in your skin?
I will drink lampwax
And leave terracotta dust,
My faith and wonder withering in
Shadows on couches and grass arenas;
Until a semblance of my substance
Emerges, resembling enough,
Just enough encaustic dust,
So you may trust your memory,
Unlock the door, and let me in
from this close distance.
Sonnet #1
I dissolved in this minstrelsy: your blood
Beautiful smell falls within thoughts of us;
Tea’s pass in winds of opportunity.
These inklings of orphan lines before your
Clay skin drapery, adorned with snakes
Where no earth is passing beneath me, just
Unrequited looks over lunch and hair.
If I could only speak the eye musing
Heard in your voice: warm light filters my gaze
Into you: river grey eyes, drowning stars!
How many of these tea ceremonies
Have ended with your head coming down on
Nothing but your own shoulder! My dear friend:
Is love bound to ending silence? Harm? Care?
Beautiful smell falls within thoughts of us;
Tea’s pass in winds of opportunity.
These inklings of orphan lines before your
Clay skin drapery, adorned with snakes
Where no earth is passing beneath me, just
Unrequited looks over lunch and hair.
If I could only speak the eye musing
Heard in your voice: warm light filters my gaze
Into you: river grey eyes, drowning stars!
How many of these tea ceremonies
Have ended with your head coming down on
Nothing but your own shoulder! My dear friend:
Is love bound to ending silence? Harm? Care?
Drumlight
Drumlight
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t5sRphng8mE
What are Drumlights? http://www.polarityrecords.com/vintage-drum-kits-1920s-and-30s.html
The
Plural They, My Children,
They
are the most beautiful creatures,
moving
at the speed of their growth,
and
perhaps it is just my voice
missing
them,
it
puts their memory
before
me,
pure
imagination
running
rampant
as
the hour of bedlam closes.
Some
frog
Tree
creature
and
another
that
is perhaps a dangling scarecrow
...with
a crow problem.
They
move
in
what appears to be a dance.
They
are
the
most beautiful creatures.
They
appear
unappear
like translucent ninjas.
They
have
fooled
me with invisibility amulets again!
They
love
to
dance victoriously upon
the
vanquished foe that am I.
Transubstantiation
We were everywhere, sent from here, sent to there, left to fade after the war.
What did you do, coming home from the wake? Did you lay down in the sun, asleep in the eel grass, creeping toward a mourning of that night, a pregnant future, dry light driftwood on a beach under the darkness of a new moon?
We drink hurricane lanterns inside your pink wax, touching each others terracotta dust, glitter and disco feeling the soft inside of cracker lips lumbering towards the west with a change of substance.
I begged that you trust your memory, unlocking the door to let me in from our close distance.
I came like a dwelling wound, eyes removed by the lamp in your iridescent space, I came home from the war, bandaged in your skin.
The Groceries
What will we do with the groceries?
It is night, tonight’s the night:the last night of our house.
The kids like pasta twice a week,
and we did for the thousandth time
and then this night for the third
in a row, have that. And then it
was movie night, for the last
time family movie night
on this purple couch with that
yellow starred green blanket and
the love to slumber under
after a bowl of popcorn,
sleeping into the epilogue.
You were already gone to sleep,
as you do. When did that start?
It must have been a night
like tonight. Maybe that night
was the last night, maybe
it was the first new moon.
To bed I carried the kids, but then
had to sleep on their floor,
as always. Friday was ghost stories
at camp, again. They believed
something would come back
from the dead to steal them
in their sleep. But now they are
sleeping. I know the sound, its
always there, your sound,
as if you were a baby,
I was here when you were a baby
and all it took was shhh and holding
you close to my heart. Then the ghosts
dissappear. Will they tomorrow?
Only for my baby, but
not for my darling.
This Digital World
War runs across my life-
from the deserts of Vietnam
and the meadows of Death Valley
to the drugs the surgeon
took to get off before
before he operates tonight.
I miss you, and me.
That's easy, so I confuse things,
elaborate, artificialize
nothing more than the curve
and shape of visible light
on desire's skin.
This digital world
lingers
and does not bring
us closer together.
There are images of bodies
in my hand, in every hand
across the Earth and Space
and back to my birth
in a river in Vietnam
for I wasn't born where my mother said,
she was drugged, the hole I came out of
was not even my father's heart
but his brother or his cousin
or the shame-son thrown through
the hooker glass and foster class
the one whose all adrenal
by the third grade and looking
to numb the knees with pearl pellets,
kids who work, floating in famine ribs,
whichever one made the wall
with a bullet to his own brain-
I mean the one's born to death-
cold rain raising their multiple surfaces
tiny hairs, tiny ridges on nipples
crevasses, curves, shadows leading down
into irregular holes
they're our bodies
in this digital world, they are ours
by a touch of glass, by the ether
we breathe, in interring the entertainment
of their death.
This war lingers in a country
addicted to heroes, everyone a hero.
Patches on their skin, the diminished
heroism of a sick nation, for there is no honesty
before a burning gasoline corpse
gang raped and smoldering,
only a cry that all the others
must be heroes. Must be heroes I see.
I see with a camera through the pinhole,
my mustard seed, the puberty of the digital earth
making war sculptures with the vacuumed dust
falling off our human footprints.
I see the lingering jar, leftover hearts,
meat drugged to numbness,
pet to desire, satisfied and sleeping
knowing the bleeding mouth is down river
and if they want authenticity
they can wear the war on their skin
and by the safest edge through an advertisement
leave the death to the dead, selling indeed
and walk on the sex sore gasoline dress, meat separated from bone,
was only that, some deed sort of sordid, the sum of
breaking entertainment news meant for the head.
This digital world lays down in me,
for I have trouble separating,
its a shy heart that is not shy
but built with hurt, a day when love did not matter.
We've built enough of these kids
to feed the earth forever.
I need my body,
my heartless body,
to have its light escape,
poured onto you.
I only see
my self with the help
of telescopes.
Every love song
reminds me Spring is mostly precept,
do not confuse my ideas with your love songs-
do not confuse yourself, my love songs are:
a rainy night, the wind and the sound of tires
that crush of noise shattering inside the right ear
and bouncing quiltedly around your gaps,
every sad song
reminds me of a question: When will this end?
We are torn apart, by ourselves and more than
slightly separated, beyond repair,
its what marriage becomes when its reduced
to a carriage of arrangements, but we are torn
and it was all from the war,
the war I was born into,
the way it lingered
by the presence
of conflict, bombs,
some scholar might say
the sweep
of world events;
yet it is back
to the feelings
of distance, the desolation
that you are
not here and may not
be, that causes
an unspoken anguish
I can share with no one, because I never know
who you are. You change with the view,
a line of red corduroy along the edge of a leg
then a curve of hair reading from a page,
the curve of the page, a parabola
of a new sweatshirt zipped, a curve
in a hood, a behind the shoulder one of these,
a lean I lean to see,
more words to hide a feel
I do not know because it landed like the Fleet
and flew away with the evening,
another thing, a distraction, something green
and the thing in itself, this very artifice
of ink where I pretend
this is all so much more than loneliness
in a blended erasure of exhaustion.
And they say this digital world
brings us closer together,
"they", I demand, who? who?
And yet when we talk,
I at night
and you
in the morning,
message by message,
it is only the distance
that is illuminated.
I see these threads
we make
unwinding finally,
back to a river in Vietnam,
a bear, a mountain,
drinking the cold
the rain heavy that built
and overflowed
too close to the mouth.
Sunlight breaks from a horizon
only in my closed eyes-
a memory of hazel-
water desert, brown gold
glass, hair dust
sand, and we just break apart
you're beautiful the way beautiful
is beautiful if its gone.
Somewhere a surgeon is removing
gloves
and even though those hands
were deep in the blood,
they are dry with a pale dust
that ends without ending.
This is the war.
from the deserts of Vietnam
and the meadows of Death Valley
to the drugs the surgeon
took to get off before
before he operates tonight.
I miss you, and me.
That's easy, so I confuse things,
elaborate, artificialize
nothing more than the curve
and shape of visible light
on desire's skin.
This digital world
lingers
and does not bring
us closer together.
There are images of bodies
in my hand, in every hand
across the Earth and Space
and back to my birth
in a river in Vietnam
for I wasn't born where my mother said,
she was drugged, the hole I came out of
was not even my father's heart
but his brother or his cousin
or the shame-son thrown through
the hooker glass and foster class
the one whose all adrenal
by the third grade and looking
to numb the knees with pearl pellets,
kids who work, floating in famine ribs,
whichever one made the wall
with a bullet to his own brain-
I mean the one's born to death-
cold rain raising their multiple surfaces
tiny hairs, tiny ridges on nipples
crevasses, curves, shadows leading down
into irregular holes
they're our bodies
in this digital world, they are ours
by a touch of glass, by the ether
we breathe, in interring the entertainment
of their death.
This war lingers in a country
addicted to heroes, everyone a hero.
Patches on their skin, the diminished
heroism of a sick nation, for there is no honesty
before a burning gasoline corpse
gang raped and smoldering,
only a cry that all the others
must be heroes. Must be heroes I see.
I see with a camera through the pinhole,
my mustard seed, the puberty of the digital earth
making war sculptures with the vacuumed dust
falling off our human footprints.
I see the lingering jar, leftover hearts,
meat drugged to numbness,
pet to desire, satisfied and sleeping
knowing the bleeding mouth is down river
and if they want authenticity
they can wear the war on their skin
and by the safest edge through an advertisement
leave the death to the dead, selling indeed
and walk on the sex sore gasoline dress, meat separated from bone,
was only that, some deed sort of sordid, the sum of
breaking entertainment news meant for the head.
This digital world lays down in me,
for I have trouble separating,
its a shy heart that is not shy
but built with hurt, a day when love did not matter.
We've built enough of these kids
to feed the earth forever.
I need my body,
my heartless body,
to have its light escape,
poured onto you.
I only see
my self with the help
of telescopes.
Every love song
reminds me Spring is mostly precept,
do not confuse my ideas with your love songs-
do not confuse yourself, my love songs are:
a rainy night, the wind and the sound of tires
that crush of noise shattering inside the right ear
and bouncing quiltedly around your gaps,
every sad song
reminds me of a question: When will this end?
We are torn apart, by ourselves and more than
slightly separated, beyond repair,
its what marriage becomes when its reduced
to a carriage of arrangements, but we are torn
and it was all from the war,
the war I was born into,
the way it lingered
by the presence
of conflict, bombs,
some scholar might say
the sweep
of world events;
yet it is back
to the feelings
of distance, the desolation
that you are
not here and may not
be, that causes
an unspoken anguish
I can share with no one, because I never know
who you are. You change with the view,
a line of red corduroy along the edge of a leg
then a curve of hair reading from a page,
the curve of the page, a parabola
of a new sweatshirt zipped, a curve
in a hood, a behind the shoulder one of these,
a lean I lean to see,
more words to hide a feel
I do not know because it landed like the Fleet
and flew away with the evening,
another thing, a distraction, something green
and the thing in itself, this very artifice
of ink where I pretend
this is all so much more than loneliness
in a blended erasure of exhaustion.
And they say this digital world
brings us closer together,
"they", I demand, who? who?
And yet when we talk,
I at night
and you
in the morning,
message by message,
it is only the distance
that is illuminated.
I see these threads
we make
unwinding finally,
back to a river in Vietnam,
a bear, a mountain,
drinking the cold
the rain heavy that built
and overflowed
too close to the mouth.
Sunlight breaks from a horizon
only in my closed eyes-
a memory of hazel-
water desert, brown gold
glass, hair dust
sand, and we just break apart
you're beautiful the way beautiful
is beautiful if its gone.
Somewhere a surgeon is removing
gloves
and even though those hands
were deep in the blood,
they are dry with a pale dust
that ends without ending.
This is the war.
Glazed Looking Glass, Into A Window of Looking Past
We
have broken you
we
brought you in
that Saturday
a night
with August chill
clay
and stardust started
water on the spinning wheel
and we
have broken
your heart
Did we bring you along
only to set you in front
of the grindstone?
No, we thought
we could simply
love you and enough
would be the grasp,
that bubbles reflect
the light coming
in through the exhausted
shades,
that we could resist
the dissipating days
You
did as well as
we could
as good
as we would say
with the fork
and you resisted
and changed hands
and it was good,
you got the fork
You
did what you should
and we
have broken your heart
You held up your hands
and wrapped your arms
as we asked,
you held the ball
and moved to the left
you did everything
and we
changed directions
we
let you play
with remote controls
and then suddenly
there was no television anymore
We have broken your heart
we have taken your smile
and replaced it with a long
thoughtful glaze.
We have set you
on the road to
discipline and madness.
Save your rainbows, push
the callous fingertips
through the knitting
and speak with your own
angels, bring your smile
back from that distant
place the back
of your eyes have retreated
into, bring your mind back.
I can not bear the thought
of bare art, of admitting our divorce
of admitting my part, my part was it,
it watching your heart break
across the kitchen table,
my dear son, falling
as if the Fall now is,
falling apart.
have broken you
we
brought you in
that Saturday
a night
with August chill
clay
and stardust started
water on the spinning wheel
and we
have broken
your heart
Did we bring you along
only to set you in front
of the grindstone?
No, we thought
we could simply
love you and enough
would be the grasp,
that bubbles reflect
the light coming
in through the exhausted
shades,
that we could resist
the dissipating days
You
did as well as
we could
as good
as we would say
with the fork
and you resisted
and changed hands
and it was good,
you got the fork
You
did what you should
and we
have broken your heart
You held up your hands
and wrapped your arms
as we asked,
you held the ball
and moved to the left
you did everything
and we
changed directions
we
let you play
with remote controls
and then suddenly
there was no television anymore
We have broken your heart
we have taken your smile
and replaced it with a long
thoughtful glaze.
We have set you
on the road to
discipline and madness.
Save your rainbows, push
the callous fingertips
through the knitting
and speak with your own
angels, bring your smile
back from that distant
place the back
of your eyes have retreated
into, bring your mind back.
I can not bear the thought
of bare art, of admitting our divorce
of admitting my part, my part was it,
it watching your heart break
across the kitchen table,
my dear son, falling
as if the Fall now is,
falling apart.
30/30/(9)
What were the ovens?
A miner hands grabbed a pastry at lunch.
The black dust made a dead black space
on the breaded handle. He put his dusty
lips to the crust, his cartwheeling teeth
sank their way into the salted meat.
In five minutes he was done.
In his first five minutes back at work
he dislodged the fragment of coal
that would fire away the lives
and then lifted
his tool across his body
and swiftly dislodged more,
doing so he breathed in dust.
Where everyone makes a sum
On the trail-ways to the body,
the sun rises sideways,
a fire above the pink road.
Where everyone makes a sum
On the system of death,
we become less a people
and more a thing.
What baby born looks
Into its mother’s eyes
And forecloses on its demise?
Who tells a child-we need
You to die, you must protect
Us, you are the seed
To a new life,
a seed we
send to die.
Missamari In the Seven Seas
Lost Atoll We are lost atoll
There are fading fish
But we eat them all
They are rotting,
They are drying
On the salted rocks.
Where we fade and make
Each other as much as fatal
Accidents of fate,
And live as our eyes grow dark,
Live as we let go,
Fading furthur,
End your searches
For our lost atoll.
Waking in the island sun
We drove through
The moon and slept
To last midnight
To see the wake
And rising sun
And feel the warm
Begin to bake and
Begin to shake
The earth off our beach
To feel the fine sand
And our hair,
Kiss your shirt, sleep late.
We will fade alone
Among the world,
We will make them late,
We will be late.
Our lost atoll,
We are together.
We will be
Among the world,
We will fade.
Among the world,
We will make them late,
We will be late.
Our lost atoll,
We are together.
We will be
Among the world,
We will fade.
Three Muses
Aoide
the debris, the guitar
she left was sleeping,
was gathering, the dust
trailing her sylph with
knife tips and cypress
of pink going by,
the edge of a fracturing
nail was a war
on memory, the
shifting towards
was a foreward,
this morning of sand.
easy little paste, blue flies, a sovereignty in our
salvation dispenser, noise wandering up her Persian
landscape;
she is standing in the color of the air, nowhere in everything.
her head is a receptacle, listening to
the endless beach, pieces of sculpted half-lives,
which half is inside the desert sea,
the bare stage?
Wherever were my welds,
My mounds, my wounds?
It flies under me, your picture,
A war on memory, fatherless day moon;
The night of an American sundown.
Mirrorwalls or time moving forward.
A lineal system of interruptions
Betray our indirect spin, towards
Forewords,
Darkness becoming light,
In the beginning of the epitaph
Everywhere is the face of God.
And when we become blind,
With your body in the past,
With you choreographed finally
Under grass, we put away
Your shoes under looking glass.
Terpsichore
Sonnet #2
Uneven in exact poetic terms,
We are old liars, our parents bed lice.
Immortal as I myself have done two
Pedestal declines, two and three, princely
Those principles, this point, orbits by this
Head, between artifice and style; by an
Audition pleased me with wood melting tongue.
Manner method, an old legend of flat
Rounder worm in her anise seed center:
Ceremonies of conium: someone
Said before my feet cut short our words:
Air or breath?
“a cock to Asclepius,” Socrates is dead.
Twelve pieces of skin around the earth.
Sunium to Phasis in Harmonia,
Twelfth piece of skin around the earth.
“Brethren, the pleasure indeed of my heart, and my supplication that is to God for Israel, is -- for salvation”
September 8, 1981: Adelphos, listen! The beast of Revelation is nothing but alcoholic eyes and dead skin. He came from Indiana to Las Vegas with no other purpose than to shit out his last days in a path of paper gold, plastic misery and cheap tar junk. A cream neon cross with Richard Chamberlain eyes sits restless and bound, stumpy bloody palms nestled into the auburn hair of a demon’s chest. Beware brothers, of the concessions and confusions within your desire.
He peels his multiple eyes into his white neck fat. He pulls his blue collar shirt over the alien mass of dried milk. He grunts and walks away with your money.
“We was painted grass, a pack of cigarettes, and you sit there in your fucking piss and shit, you don’t fucking work. If you wanted, the girls’ll get off in the morning, give away a free one on yer’ walk. Run them errands, take yourself down a little bit. Fuck everything you can, you ain’t goin’ nowhere when you come around here. Cat houses and liquor, look around. I suggest a sweet kid walk up Sixth from now own.”
He rises in erasers, playing in the sand, serrated cans, crossing the stoplights with receding acrobatics. The divine have lost interest in keeping track of the little pieces of dust, a pollen womb of eyeless headless flies. Your church basement mouth, a fucking souvenir.
I saw a blind man leading his dog, I saw a blind man leading his dog
Face her in a blue downtown, artificial sodium light,
A brown part of a tooth sticks out of her face,
Asymmetrical lipstick, the smell of wax on
Violated yellow nicotine air, spoken bicycled voice,
A throat smoke sore, caked toad hands, and
Cannibal waste on a
conquered plate, my eluded
elongated medulla and
mechanical fingers sit on necks, come by
bar lights slivering out of the windowed corners,
Grabbing clothes and running games:
Waiting, to go waiting, silence.
Waking nicotine air
Scarboy, I myself have done
Two and three, just
Violet mumbling and humming
And disintegrating.
Ice-covered proverb abandons your pride, sightless gentleman lead a history plague
Down your thighs, and you surmised…red roses to survive.
I saw a blind man leading his dog, I saw a blind man leading his dog
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