Thursday, May 28, 2009

a vision.

An objection of laughter, a caught throat where death answers a thumping of hands on the back, chorus of angel birds that crash into my windows, feathers full of fear. Vermin crawl on the limbs of letters.

Rotten heart of language, or the secretions of stars a violence of cosmos before we could know the blunt spectacle of flowers colors blackness behind eyelids and book covers. Life made from dust gypsies.

No. if you were churning thinking about sex in the afternoon, a lamp in the rain. The edges of my skin hurting or bending just so around bone and fat a muscle seems not human but equine in its constructions.

In the news everything goes well except reality on the bus or hallway. I am happy to attempt utopia or engage angel birds so lush so impossible. And if there is screaming or singing then death is close or already living in our words.

Sleeping no just the suspension of breath covered in cloth, linen. A robe of fleshy air mantled on my shoulders, you shaking in the hahaha’s of seasons of wind of air before pollen light catastrophe of meaning before animal before sex.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

when hands are cupped.

Where hands are cupped
around motion
attempting containment
the lines become unstoppable
the page
is only because of spilling and
not trying you drink from cups
and anger over the phone

a lonely life eating steak
but we must draw lines lines lines
before kneeling
the blooming face of solitude licking
the feet of horses and
loving the wings of birds but they are its children
and I can only pretend to know
the good of rolling in the dirt and the sky and the sun.
I want to roll in the sun before I die.

I wrote history
a letter in modern sickness
and do not expect a reply
but the white hair of your eye brows
makes the wonderment a nonchalance
a porch swing
the pond is filled with oracles.
Nice day for a swim.

And the LOVE will not lick
in the moment of command
or the counting
and recounting of blessings and what does that mean?

When nothing means more than unraveling
the last second of sign language
no politics no sex
just eyes in the last second
before the bombs of heaven swallow

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Creation Myth #1

Before the time of tarantulas the Gila monsters lived in the trees and told stories the heart a drum of effort the world a place of no lines only water and the pools of hearts filled with pebbles stories woven with mud and reeds the hole of time a desert a parade of horses and silk worms.

Then scorpions traveled to the stars with bassinets for their babies and began the myths tempting Galileo with secession and tobacco ashes the world had never been the same the fog kept it all in its breast. Eternity had some rules.

The bird that talked to Spain rode a stallion that moved like ink keeping the eyes unfocused the heart was bleating and could not stop the paces were too marvelous for the halls of emperors who crumbled and caressed each loss in caves forgotten.

Colors began because before that they did not exist but now they were bursting in tapestry on the backs of fish and the whales were marginalized but a new world had begun. No one could argue.

Ships were the ticket to deserts to death to the dissolution of morphology where children came tumbling across the land like rainbows and completion was the enemy that could not be stopped in a nuclear sweating sleep the hours were now in the thumbs of beasts
the world held the hands of god and told him they were sorry for laughter at national anthems and Darwin.


In the ashes the ashes. The margins spoke the language. Say nothing of chalk ghosts shoal the remainder of industry the heaven the motion the cannery circular and no thank you we don’t quit.

Before time before the book the world knew about dogs and there were wolves and the hearts of dogma knew that they were prolific. they were fast. the woods was a secret.

Looking for archetypes in all the wrong places. Don’t quit because the weather is all we have in the ashes the ashes. Longing the longing before toilets giving everything back to remain perfect untouchable the face of god.

Opera pink the paint screaming his name in the ashes the ashes. nobody howling questions childhood finger on the trigger. the river holding on to the bend the bend called to say you were drunk again. Before I go, shame everlasting.

Friday, May 8, 2009

The Heart of Hearts

The Heart of Hearts

As if
bearing all
it bears no name,

shadow slumping
on the backs
of words,

As if
we sleep in
the laps of vowels

stroking the names of
the greats,
irreversible and undulating.

As if
salt packed close, crumbled
the sky skims discussion
before the closing of lips
around permanence.

As if
there were nobody
talking about fire,

stopping to notice spaces
between flames, greedy
swallowing of air.

As if
reason was the heart
of it all, instead
we choke
smiling all the time
on ashes.