Sunday, April 29, 2007

Forgotten built people a concrete river,
corroded into beautiful
long after their absence collided with town.
Many years after beauty had begun to sink in,
stupid people tossed garbage & unnecessary rocks
into its long tongue
and the slithering stopped. Pass me that beer.

Gulp, I am going to make your body music,
I am going to watch you closely, with total attention,
until you become very attractive to yourself.
I am telling you this river about the story
because I know that you will very beautiful
before (during the years
of your ascent in radio static
and your parent's obliteration) become:
your absence collides with me, beautifully.

Monday, April 23, 2007

I'm going out on an icicle to see a hard little world
all you ancient skinners
gather around me as I howl
there is a storm in the tea cup
there is a storm in the rain
there is a storm in the storm
on a plane skimmed
by rice eyes
in a lunar week

all it can be is a pin
it can't go any farther
it can't sell its coin to a handless coin
nothing is holding its outward
nothing is inward in summer
summer is doors and an outward teeth
grabbing you elevator in
the teeth between a straw
the teeth between a--

eating, in the hollow shaft--

outside in a sycamore sat
outside in a sycamore sat
a Chaos cat
a Chaos cat

nobody knew where the machine was hiding its olives
marijuana poems for dickheads on hell
rang softly in bathroom hallways
while the engine ticked like a bug

the whole kitchen-mass heaved
in a clean white fur
pigs don't purr
they snuffle hoses
long in skin

I'm waiting on the darkside of your tailbone
pouncing on waiting rooms
with an old tongue

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

The kingdom wants, the kingdom wants,
the kingdom is just
a diluted batch of humans.
If you cannot see their up-close faces

they seem like a machine of god,
but they are not.

Sorry for you, the dog-whistle blows itself
and the dog smashes a window.
Your dog is a love coming for you between
(furry & frothing between!) all organizations.

He is licking at his own mouth, he is happy
to be a chaos, he does not know that he is a chaos,
he does not know that he is happy to be a chaos

and I love him
and I want to take him away from you.
I am worried about the heat flagged down by mercy
that makes red dust whirlwind itself
in perfect DNA spirals
on skinny country sidewalks.
I am worried that walking there
will fill my head with babies
and your belly with leaves.

And I am worried like a broken priest
when you come to me,
soft-bellied and sensual,
tense as a newborn crying.
I am worried that I will make love to you for ten hours
behind a guardrail
and make you very late in coming home
to all your other husbands.

And I want to meet you in a whirlwind
on one of those broken paths
nameless and alone, unable to see
one another, feeling in the powerful dark
sunlight.

I am worried that my voice goes on too long
in the wrong places, and stops crucially
when it would otherwise
become a part of your body.
I am worried that my voice cannot
love me in an echo from a woman's body,
and I beg you to shut me up
with your hands beside my knees
and your rear-end on my mouth
while you rip up the grasses, solemnly
like an angry child.

Thursday, April 05, 2007

Who will kiss my sister's hands
and witness the wind through my brother's hair

and who will play the violin for them
when the violent go to bed

and who will pray for them
in the night sand

when the telephones die

and who will comb my tiny sister's hair
and care for the fracture in my brother's eye

and polish every rough to a jewel
as the sun is a radio sky
I hate that young man:
he wants her to keep his cunt
in her back pocket,
and he hears it laughing.

She is no longer slender enough
to move through a modern town
without painting a few smoky people
with her non-vital organs.

And I hate that boy:
when she feels herself becoming plump
with every movement on the sidewalk,
she also feels him, following her.

I want to take out the cords
from his excited neck
and watch him wobble around like a sick turkey,
trying to look at her.

And I want her to place her breasts, so sore
from being hunted, in my hands
by bending forward, to rest her brain
in my lap, while he watches from a wrecked triangle:
the brokenness of the stupid shapes
he's created in the air with all his watching.
the kingdoms of the world will try
to get their buckles onto you
(you've gotta steel inside
their infant firepower)

police parenthesis
put a hole in my mouth-area
so that my mouth can eat other mouths
in a mouthlessness without end

there are no kingdoms under you
there are no kingdoms over you

but who can stand inside their firepower?

the kingdoms of the world will fall
into a pulsing kingdom hole

but who can stand secure inside their longing?

and who will braid my sister's hair
and who will touch my brother's voice
and who will kiss the walls inside the ruins
Who in the trees
will come down to the beach
to kiss you in front of the sea
the sea that is covered in beautiful trash

While a woman in a blanket heals my wounds
and who will lay your blanket on the sea
Ms. Melody
and break your sister on the sands
while the radio plays:

And her epic fingers,
and her legendary torso,
and her feet smelling of limes my love
punctuated by sweet sounds dot dash;

who will stand behind the lens and,
affectionately,
let her pound her pianos with hammers
in a little boy's dream while the radio sleeps.