Tuesday, March 31, 2015

why i left

one thing does not know well enough to end
before another begins

20 below, april, windchill skiving at my collar, red hands clasping it closed
as crows dive-bomb romance like needles lancing boils in the ether

nobody means to break the cold, just as nobody means to break heat
it just happens

imperceptible pressures build up, we shoot free from the grasp, fly, cry!
or plummet to earth

Monday, March 30, 2015

the need to pray

where did i learn to be on my knees? 
i don't know, but there i was kneeling,
slight as a little green pea in my mother's house.

was it the seeds of my thickening ovaries
which bloated belief? i don't know,
but when i could create life, i thought i was god.

now my children ripen in their beds.
i lay on my pillow and identify this longing.
not to be saved. not to be chosen. but to say. and to choose.

advice to inspire the living

imagine you're dead
your tongue and teeth a cigar box of miscellaneous keys
your heart - bagpipes' sorely perforated bladder
your lingerie's a sepulchered grotesquerie
dirt - your dna's only pattern
your memories: unpicked, uncherished, wizened dangling green beans 
your eyes now old rheumy grapes dried to coins that clatter
your skin's transpired through the air like the ghost of oral history
you've been put out, a fire with no point (doesn't and never did matter)
there's no more no more
no shore for any river chatter.

Sunday, March 29, 2015

when the poem is good

there'll be lightning in the cupboard,

a tarantula will tear through sunlight's ribs,

drums 'll thrumble through bloodlines,

something will become further lodged— 
or rend free.

as to why

whatever this world is or pretends to be—

poetry, for me, is a ladder.
i'm either climbing down into it, or further away.

submission

first - you sculpted her with ideas

stuffed the jelly to the doughnut, so to say

gave her a future

how fun it was to fashion her with furniture

you tucked in her undershirt   

curled her hair

fed your feelers into all her warm parts

for god's sakes, you gave her your name!

then sent her out—

hoping she wouldn't be rejected


on the street alone 

she tries breathing on her own terms

soft buds tucked gingerly 

(how they still make your own ache!)

the world drives by real slow— 

censorious

elbow out the window

eyes sly

appraising her titties.


(know this poem is about submitting work for publication. know that i'm uncomfortable with submission and the language of this poem. you should be too.)

Saturday, March 28, 2015

sleepover, notes

i make the girls pancakes with chocolate chips for breakfast. they eat them warm, dangling like pizza, with their beautiful fingers. the girls have taken over the living room, mattresses, female bodies and attitudes. my son sleeps late, upstairs. i make him grilled cheese and bring them up to him. he comes into my room shortly after and shyly asks me to go downstairs to get him juice. he says, because his sister is mean to him. but his sister was just upstairs with her body all over him in his bed, lovingly cajoling him awake with insults and poking fingers. what he really means is, please fetch me something to slake my thirst, because it's confusing to be conscious.

fat squirrels

i'd like to shake the hand of the authorities who had the foresight to preserve The Bronnenberg house; this happens sometimes in some counties or countries, all the useful things from times gone by assembled, protected and paraded, almost like a zoo of our own old being performed for us, the usefulness of things so distant from us now. i overhead one conversation the publicist was having, “So many younger people don’t comprehend how people used to live...I was working in here one day and some young women came in and asked me what this quilt frame was. I started to explain and then realized they didn’t even know what a quilt was.” how on earth do these young people stay warm? i guess they turn up the heat. (lol)

it's also good to see the squirrels on the property are flourishing, each fat one guarding his stash (he so generously doesn't need to hunt) with steely claws and strangely familiar scrutinous eyes.

***

(actually i enjoy visiting places like this. and places like this are important. what i don't enjoy is that our living has taken us so far away from usefulness, connectedness, consciousness. living itself has become a spectator's endeavour.)

dialogue from friends of mounds site

Friday, March 27, 2015

the heroes

he, with his pennons flying
rides in triumphantly
brandishing a flourish of every love omen
and swoops her to the back of his steed
and off they gallop, away from the terrible precipice

carrying inside them
a terrible precipice

portraits of the self













ivy

my daughter dreams 
a pain in her hand.

she says her brain speaks to her
arbitrarily, words: plant, vine.

she looks down then, 
armed with the words
and sees it,
plucks it.

its roots, 
roping through her,
unrope, snap free, or she,
the hole remaining.

in the dream 
i urge her to measure 
what's left, 
the plant's inverse image.

i tell her of teeth dreams, death dreams
and how she has interestingly dreamed
of birth and death, the whole kabang!
the complete circuit.

she's intoxicated
by her entanglement 
with mystery. 

i want to dream it more!
she demands,  
over and over!

before my daughter was born
my mother gave a plant to me
that she began
from a slip of her own ivy.

we snip a six inch sprig -
set it to a glass of water

and with her dreamdrunk eyes
my daughter watches 
impatiently, itchy hands,
for roots to arise.

Thursday, March 26, 2015

sometimes i'm here, sometimes he is, sometimes it's just god talking

sometimes when we're loving each other i am stricken by the truth that it is me that is the source of this love between us. that without me there would be nothing. at such times i rise like a mountain. flames fetter, then fracture, all over my delectable flesh. i burn ripe like fruit and we both rise, each a wing on the solitary phoenix, our heartbeat strong and bloody in the body of our ashes.

at other times i touch upon the landscape of his skin like a fanatic flounders fever-blind along the wailing wall, like a delirious indian girl embraces the golden neck of her holy cow, like the enraptured catholic drunkenly rubs the delicate nubs, in repetition, of her rosary. i pray so hard into his body i become less and less the mind or the mouth, but more why the mouth was made 
       
     and what it was intended to utter in the first place.

running out of time, notes




at home in the world alongside the winter weeds, i feel an affinity with them, a relationship, a kinship, as though i recognize in them something of myself. not morosely. but astoundingly. the deep affiliation with the physical embodiment of the natural world, a genetic family, union.

so, if this affiliation - why so often pain and confusion?

an ultimate knowledge exists, if i can manage past myself, to eternity. at times i can almost touch it, perhaps can touch it, but can't hold it. (such grand words, but true. it's for everyone, everything. is.)

but tied to my sense of self, endures, despite my better brain, the recognition of my demise.

something in my blood paddles backwards against the clock.

i have no choice but to scream out random words, scratching my way into this moment, clutching 

     - scream out - anyone's words,
                              or anything that seems to occur through me!

silence will follow.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

standing at the back door, viewing the garden

when i was young 
i placed 
two beautifully 
rounded 
small green bowls
and two smaller 
handleless 
green cups
into what i deemed a garden
but was only the backyard,
where i also situated 
a wooden chair
along the rusted metal fence
which no one would ever sit in
and which would become
weaker, over time,
with the weather.
rainwater, dirt,
occasionally a flower petal
or insect,
were temporarily held
in what felt like
little green hands.
the dishware seemed asian to me.
i wasn't aware of what i was after.
i don't even think i once wondered on its
capacity to hold such delicate things
or it being delicate itself,
the vignette merely being
an internal call
to aesthetics,

until now
as i look 
toward myself
and wonder 
just how much more
i might be able 
to take in.

grief, how we carry it and how it translates, notes

we're watching a tv show. a three year old boy has died. my daughter, 14, shrugs her shoulders and says whatever to his tiny shoes covered in mud, his little lifeless body, his mother's life-drained face.

i'm undone with the possibility (which is, of course, impossible) of my children, the very ones watching tv with me, having died years ago. i nearly panic.

there's a funeral on tv. everyone gathers and sits politely, bereft. i say, "so that you guys know, i'm not having one of those." i mean funeral.

more shrugging.

and then she says, "but when my brother dies we're having one."

she looks at her brother. he at her. an incredulous question fills the air from the source of his eyes - you love me?  then she dashes it to non-existence. "what!-" she says, "we'll need the chance to celebrate his death!"

they engage in a five second stare-off.

she picks up maggie the cat who is happening by and roughly dangles its fat furry body in the air over her tipped up face. "don't tell maggie, mom, but meow meow was prettier."

meow meow died a year ago. we had meow meow for the entirety of my daughter's life, plus two years. no one seemed to like meow meow very much. we told the children of meow meow's death after school, sitting down together for a serious conversation. neither child seemed to care. a new video game had come in the mail and another cat, a stray, was clawing at our side door, anxious to get in.

"we don't want you, maggie," she claims, shaking maggie a little bit more, and then briskly petting her head and tossing her away.

my daughter lengthens her legs into the couch blankets, straigtens her jeans. "when meow meow died, i cried and cried, right there." she points to where i'm sitting. "i don't think you even noticed."

i didn't.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

why i've no time to write, notes

in two hours i have to attend (again) to the immigration process. in two weeks i start back to work full-time. in six months or a year or whenever the government agrees, we will move. i will plant a garden. i will have to turn the soil, plant the seeds, water them, pull weeds. then there will be a harvest and a putting up. i will have a birthday. birthdays. my hands will shake. there will be growing pains. there will be politics. any minute now someone in my house might become angry. flus crowd near the door. the soil looms large for someone - we can't even tell from this nearness, who. i will have nothing to wear to the funeral. i'll not go. what will i look like in a box? already i'm ugly in sleep. there are red thorned canes growing in the yard at the house i don't live in yet. i don't have enough time to tend to them. i can't get my hands close enough.

the dinner table

mom's throat 
flashes like a fish
when she laughs 
and hands the basket
to my little brother, 
who has just told
another joke. bob, 
our older brother,
rascals up chuck's 
(the little joker's) 
hair. the basket is 
brimming with gold,
the commoner: flour, 
converted;
butter slakes 
each opaque surface.
dad, i cajole, 
when you're done 
drinking that
can you pass 
the gravy? 
the boat sails
through the kitchen 
lamplit hands; bobs
right into my inlet, 
second chair 
from the end. 
the girls press in
and with 
invigorated thrusts,
truss up the waves 
of small town gossip.

you're invited
so pull up a chair—
i'll give you a choice.
you could say either,
this is a lie,
or someone else's poem,
but it's not mine.

Monday, March 23, 2015

on not becoming old married folk

not to slip the gizmo to the carriage bolt
nor the yoke to the oxen

no code words, no signs
no handwritten prescription

but rather that look in the eye
the sudden, the harried one

the wild horse rearing high to the whip

hunger

how the mind is hungry:

the blind girl
searches the white room
for the white rabbit to burst into being


how the mouth is hungry:

the all hand girl
taps the black sky
stud, stud, stud, space...


how the soul is hungry:

ovum, sperm

Sunday, March 22, 2015

how it's done

it's sugaring off time. i go to see him. every year he presents us with four jars 
of the purest maple syrup, jars we lord, eventually covet as our stock runs thin,

covering pancakes, ham, yorkshire pudding, small sips of it from silver spoons after dinner,
always one eye on the amber prize as it lessens and lessens.

he spends days slogging mud in the boreal forest, limbering up to his familiar trees,
drilling, tapping, spiling them, like a lover sashing buckets to their waists. 

how off-season he maintains every crude piece of apparatus with vigilant precision.
days and days he boils off, sitting there, fingers in his lap, attending the transformation.

what, i wonder, what passes through his mind in the sweet cloud? easy thoughts? difficult?
now he sits with his foot in a cast, broken. earlier this year he fell and hurt his shoulder.

and then, of course, there have been the heart attacks, the dying twice,
the being resurrected, pulled clean back to light with the cold embrace of a metal table.

all the years and yet i have only seen him sad less than the fingers on one hand.
maybe next, perhaps never again— but this year there will be no maple syrup.

it's late at night, early spring, my children sleeping, their pouting lips easy with their dreams.
i sit in the forest of jumbled bedsheets with my door wide open, looking outside. 

i imagine my silhouette might seem confident from behind, if someone were to come in. 
but inside me pressures shift and the dark river of my blood jolts toward openings.

further into it, i'm carried, crying, deep bodied, without releasing one betraying sound. 
this is what parents do; this is how they usher it, the pain, silently, right out into the open.

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

such beautiful things happen

for instance - this clock
how it ticks and tocks 
so loudly - its call
lulled us to this house
how we loved it
the soundness of four walls
empty/yet full
with the bell of time
chiming - 
as though through mountains 

and that time - our daughter
(one of the small ones / seeded /
     between us)
cracked night's pericarp
opening the clock blindly
fumbling her fingers inside it
exhuming - to hide
its source of power
between pages of a book
unable to bear it

today
the lady bug of spring
emerges from 
the seedcoat of house
seeks heat 
upon the outer ring
of stark clear windows

last winter 
your mom dashed a splash of milk
to her walnut stained countertop
and cooed the lady bug there
with ringside incitement
(all these histories hypocotyl
     between us)

i put my hand there now
mid window 
to seek heat too
the ladybug trading
one route to nowhere
for my hand as another
(another form of - where exactly?)
i think hard 
and then think - harder
until i can feel her
traveling /small power/ over skin
and shout out - with you 
curious  - drawing nearer 
i can feel your shadow - come
which isn't shadow 
(for the light's before us)
but your particular 
heat set loose
through the filtered form 
of your man-hull body
one dark heat / seeking another
ticking closer -
     then ticking closer still.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

horror story, or blessing, some days it's hard to tell

the bowl, has a ten inch diameter
might hold every bean from the garden, heaped
it's, that big (or the garden, that small)
if you listen to the bowl on warm days, it hums 
on cold days, it mumbles
made by a person's mind, then hands
something remains in the bowl of, that person
and so i'm attracted to that bowl, like to breasts
and afraid of that bowl, like of someone else's elderly sour smelling grandfather
i bought it to begin my new life, of meaning
having given every other bowl away, but one, the ugly one
this one, is beautiful, like someone else's childhood
i want only value in this new life of mine—
so far the bowl, sits empty

the emptiness tosses light into the air above my kitchen counter
like knives.

Monday, March 16, 2015

As Far as We Knew the Cat Had No Name

If this were a poem then I should tell you one thing.
This is not a poem.

Standing at the front window of the farmhouse, small black dart-like birds 
sail across the road, floating, then thrusting, using the air like ropes.

I do not know these birds. I do not know this maneuvering. Even little birds 
such as these, common birds, ordinary, can be new to a person.

Indiana is exotic to me, its flat fields, ordered corn rows, roaring highways,
its deer, possums and skunks forced intimate with the too-fast schematics.

Out the front window I consider the boards on the porch.
They look sturdy. If we ever get here, if we are ever allowed

to actually live here in this house together, will we walk out
onto the boards in our bare feet so often we forget them,

only to notice them years later slightly spongy,
having to replace them finally even some years after that?

Yesterday at your ex-wife's house, she had serious gloves on
for the serious work of replacing boards that had gone sour,

boards on the house you had once shared. We watched her work
proficiently in the early spring's light. Somehow the light held within itself

the assurance of further warmth, as though the sunlight had a heart, 
a bloody organ that could be seen, held, a corporeal being, trustworthy.

On our way to your ex-wife's house (I yet want to write wife
even though this is what I am now) to see the children, I read Carruth aloud,

writing of his wife at that time, and his wife that came before that.
Carruth was not made of the same things that this world is, the

world of function, the network of people weaving in and out of what is a
concrete construction, "the complex fatigue." We try our best, while leaving the Exxon

but are more like the possum we narrowly miss later, turning this way 
and that. I read August First. It is March sixteenth, a Sunday.

If this were a poem I'd know where this is going.
When I'm not reading I dig my fingers into the plush rinds

of clementines slightly off-season. The rind's a bit of punk, but beneath - 
the crescent jewels, they are. (Impossible!) I put two in your mouth,

two in mine, sweetness translated from the earth, from dirt, almost wet sunshine;
nacreous, another Carruth word I've just encountered, opalescent, sediment of shine.

Eating, feeding... and this just happened, didn't it? - The small white
orphaned kitten at the side door of our farmhouse, a black one

the day before, the universe's cheeky balance. Before we left I fed her cut ham,
nicely processed, easy to chew, each bite an iota to her limitless hunger,

her kind never satisfied, always considering tomorrow's appetence. Despite my 
efforts of fracturing off small bits, easy to consume, she snapped 

at my other hand, surprising me with the force of her able jaws,
plucking blood where no need for aggression existed. I was going to 

give her more, but how would she know what I would or would not give her?
I petted her sleek back which was also eager, but allowed the burrs to remain

in her tail which would not tame. Then we - in the car, off we were to go
only moments later, and there she was...  Was it her? It was impossible 

to determine - a white cat purely sedate, her body turned as though in bed 
toward her lover, rigor mortis, her beautiful guts spilled out in two handfuls

over her arched back, opalescent. I feed you two more clementine crescents.
You manage the car back into the flow. Carruth, beautiful man, strong, fragile,

Carruth... would he hate me for saying so? Three small black birds have landed
across the road. Could it be that they swing their bottoms out below them 

like geese landing, only so much smaller, so much faster? It all goes by too fast 
for me to truly process. Traffic roars past between us and will, all day long,

and then all night long as well.

Sunday, March 15, 2015

a plea for peace

     in mem. Ahmed Al-Jumaili

if anything might happen this week -
then let it not snow in texas

Saturday, March 14, 2015

unsewing - the act of love


"dissappearance in a cage of visibility"
-Hayden Carruth, 
"The Impossible Indispensability of the Ars Poetica"


lower the presser foot

the lovely needle needs to descend
through the throat plate
to the hem

pressure the feeder dog

each stitch, not to stitch
but  - to unstitch
and thereby - make

  pivot the wheel

to love
not - love
therefore: the push (desire as of yet unmet)

engage momentum

stitch garments
to wear
toward mutual nakedness

***

in response to:

The Impossible Indispensability of the Ars Poetica by Hayden Carruth

But of course the poem is not an assertion. Do you see? When
     I wrote
That all my poems over the long years before I met you made
     you come true,
And that the poems for you since then have made you in
     yourself become more true,
I did not mean that the poems created or invented you. How
     many have foundered
In that sargasso! No, what I have been trying to say
For all the years of my awakening
Is that neither of the quaint immemorial views of poetry is
     adequate for us.
A poem is not an expression, nor is it an object. Yet it
     somewhat partakes of both. What a poem is
Is never to be known, for which I have learned to be grateful.
     But the aspect in which I see my own
Is as the act of love. The poem is a gift, a bestowal.
The poem is for us what instinct is for animals, a continuing
     and chiefly unthought corroboration of essence
(Though thought, ours and the animals’, is still useful).
Why otherwise is the earliest always the most important, the
     formative? The Iliad, the Odyssey, the book of Genesis,
These were acts of Love, I mean deeply felt gestures, which
     continuously bestow upon us
What we are. And if I do not know which poem of mine
Was my earliest gift to you,
Except that it had to have been written about someone else,
Nevertheless it was the gesture accruing value to you, your
     essence, while you were still a child, and thereafter
Across all these years. And see how much
Has come from that first sonnet after our loving began, the
     one
That was a kiss, a gift, a bestowal. This is the paradigm of
     fecundity. I think the poem is not
Transparent, as some have said, nor a looking glass, as some
     have also said,
Yet it has a quality of disappearance
In its cage of visibility. It disperses among the words. It is a
     fluidity, a vapor, of love.
This, the instinctual, is what caused me to write, “Do you see?”
     instead of “Don’t you see?” in the first line
Of this poem, this loving treatise, which is what gives away the
     poem
And gives it all to you.

Thursday, March 12, 2015

spring's first deer feeds in a small opening near webbwood, march 11, 2015

all winter long
the earth was sewn up
white tight and safe
loving sepulcher
living coffin
nothing to go wrong
be adjusted, alter
but by cold increments 
the unmoving 
brand of suffer
could be lauded
could, should
was perfect
unblemished
immaculate 
form

but spring's first day
must have crept up 
the night before
and lain in wait 
to pounce
with hunger 
through the first flag
of warm doors

and then 
her poor 
haggard harried 
earthbound form
revealed
tawny shouldered
by first heat's 
guzzle jaws
to belts of blain
scuffed brownings
unsheltered shoals
of dirt ice melting
all about 
her perfect body
buff bulla swelling
oh! a sight of horror
to behold -

but for 
the first 
deer 
trembling
forward 
out 
from tenure of winter
famished
and mercifully met
by each
of earth's
sweet wounds
newly set.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

the right way, or the other right way

either you are in 
or you are out

in with the in crowd
or in with the out

from within our little sacred lots
we likes to jumps and shouts alots

notes, from the body

where else but sitting on the toilet voiding oneself of what one has lovingly taken into the body might one realize that the world is the body seeking the body? from this lowly image, the lowliest some might say, mushroom cloud it outward to seashells and the ocean itself and every gull which flies over, there is nothing but the eternal moment seeking to thread itself through the eternal moment; despite our human pronouncements and protestations there is nothing but one thing lovingly taking another into itself.

then what is death but another form of fruition?

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

seduction

she
  the deer we found
furled like spring fern
long
chunked
lumps of spine
curved, preserved
upon the ground
like spelunking for us
in broad daylight
  the possum's padded paws
like a hardworking
russian man's palms
  the beaver's
ruddy
adamantine
claws
  the moose wrapped tight in tarp
soup so strong
we nearly barfed
then
  the skunk's
pure
bone white
mandible, anosmia
  the porcupine's entrails
glistening strings
ruby beaded curtains
and beyond:
  what lurid sings
you want to kiss my mouth
  enter skin
how else begin
body's deep seduction 
open flushed mouths
beckon: in
all
  our
best dates begin
with dead animals

Monday, March 9, 2015

our big fat mouths, happy

i thank god i've not been given anything nearing perfection.
what potential for ruin! what a life to suffer the care of the flawless!
her long limbs graze upon my eyes like giraffes nibbling green foliage.
she's been entrusted with this covenant, this drumstick, to walk it from mountain to valley.

"bread, i love bread, love it but don't dare to eat it."
the sad thin pools beneath her eyes over her beautiful lutelike cheekbones,
narcissus over the water sewn tight to his image, 
but in her care you can't help but feel sorry.

only once do we rise, 
thank god we've risen imperfect, 
our rye mouths junkfull 
with the body of this world.

Sunday, March 8, 2015

this is the search in one of its forms

 for this tree, this shadow, this field


some words, which come out like this:

desperation forming nets which fish

sometimes fists being fish

sometimes fists being nets


sometimes searching leaves you entangled

if i pound against the wall do i make shadows?

(i am pounding)

i am searching through the lengths of my desperation for something, 
some barren form of fullness, slight sustenance, the essential

Saturday, March 7, 2015

and so the world is created

by the poet who takes the lover.

he spends his days in all kinds of poses,
flexing the folds of his muscles into shaggy fistfuls,

smoothing the bedclothes in invitation, a butyraceous expanse,
running the comb through his hair 

in the knowledge that through the dark workart of love,
soon, beautifully bedraggled, it will need it again.

Friday, March 6, 2015

the light ways of the erudite

while i stagger and slog my cumbersome form through the forest on snowshoes
a chickadee weaves itself through the air like light's filament, chirping its harp to me

i halt my load and pivot
he has a ragged little cap

i tear back leather and fur, expose my hand to the elements
unhinge seed from a pouch buried deep at my midriff

to my hand he lights lighter than the seed itself
and then off to the wind again

often i spend great working torrents of time
wondering how i might alter any one thing

and then a bird sings

Thursday, March 5, 2015

drift

it's late winter but seasons persevere. 
the wind, which begins before this town, 

presses snow over rooftops toward every 
looming hungry form. it becomes 

swallowed up into invisible bellies, 
creating foundations of houses, 

defining trees and giving form to roads, 
drifts and then hangs like midriffs, waiting 

for further refinement. i look at the clock 
and note morning breakfast, 

afternoon lunch, evening dinner, 
my body clocked to hunger. 

i carry in pockets of skin and 
diminutive fissures of mind 

all of the crevices of this town, my 
void and form always changing places.

birth, childhood, midlife, elder years, 
patterns are perpetually forming. 

blow snow, blow 
and i will consume you. 

blow and you'll see my mercurial body 
dapple, then rise up for more.

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

the loquela lullaby

when the moon passes in front of the earth the word is born.
when the moon is passed along backside, again.

but when the moon conceals, cancels or consumes 
the moon completely, have we a word for this?

what if the lover stands before the lover?
what if the wound is swallowed by the wound ?

eclipse, what if we forsake
our usual place of distance?

lying in bed alone
infinitude creeps toward the bedclothes.

lying in bed alone together
infinitude yet creeps nearer still.

lover, put your lush mouth to me and heal me of my existence.
loquela, put your lush mouth to me and speak us through to silence.

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

at the edge of the morning of the 21st century

like one of you now
seagulls (shĭtgŭlz)
on the edge of the dump
shit in shit out
fear?
and time

***

gull

are you easily tricked?

what's being shoved down your gullet?

*** 

x-rayed against the sun

on the third day
when the bird-like seraphim
lift their lamewhite bodies
toward the sun
regardless the angle of their wingbeats
there are things 
below on earth
hiding in the slagheaps
glittering
resplendent

Monday, March 2, 2015

reality will be in/e/jected like octopus ink in Reisterdam

i'm lying in my bed in apartment 6 on crescent lane in Reisterdam. now i'm standing. the painters have arrived. i'm about to open my eyes. like doctor's hands i hear their soft feet shuffle over tarps they've arranged around me on the floor. they set to work. they work fast. a second is hours. i don't know who, from my previous life, is alive or dead. what colour will the walls be today? aubergine and i'll descend the stairs, absently choose a plum from the table's bowl for breakfast, but terry ludwig's eggplant will send me grieving for four years over the death of my mum.

everything hinges on what happens next.

the levators palpebrae superioris are about to be engaged. 

Sunday, March 1, 2015

proclamation

in my formal opinion, she opines, no one should date before they're seventeen
(an unusual position for a fourteen year old), they've all been alive for like five minutes

however, without a doubt, she does not believe in god. 
it's stupid.

what about you? she asks, pissed off with my provocations
not accepting her stupid judgement readily enough for her liking

how to explain to a fourteen year old that knowledge is only a ripening into 
a more profound, pronounced, well developed, Certain - i don't know