I'd love something to lift this neighborhood
with predictable suddenness, then drop it,
a big tar pancake, cracked all over,
powerline streamers flying saucer eyes,
pedestrians carved down past apathy
to the kind of gaze hard enough
to take five pounds in five seconds
from your body if you meet it
with one of your own.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
WALKING tHROUGH A LIGHT GREEN ZERO
We're eating mirrors again today,
the most exquisite cactuses
are on our shoulders,
dogs who seem to smile
in our blind spots
are really panting desperately
for life when we turn and light
our darkness to find them,
we thought we were desperate for experiences
that have made little difference now
they have happened, everything that carries
the dirty fur of daylight
is now going bald with strained deliberateness,
the bones of a beloved lizard decorate
the dresser in an ex-lover's bedroom
and the dashboard of a scrapped car
simultaneously, three pairs of eyes
stare at them from three places
at once and create with their staring
a fourth, then nimbly lizard bones
crawl around on the cylinder of
a misshapen model of earth
in the skin that once covered them,
someone is eating tinfoil, someone is not.
We're eating mirrors again today,
the most exquisite cactuses
are on our shoulders,
dogs who seem to smile
in our blind spots
are really panting desperately
for life when we turn and light
our darkness to find them,
we thought we were desperate for experiences
that have made little difference now
they have happened, everything that carries
the dirty fur of daylight
is now going bald with strained deliberateness,
the bones of a beloved lizard decorate
the dresser in an ex-lover's bedroom
and the dashboard of a scrapped car
simultaneously, three pairs of eyes
stare at them from three places
at once and create with their staring
a fourth, then nimbly lizard bones
crawl around on the cylinder of
a misshapen model of earth
in the skin that once covered them,
someone is eating tinfoil, someone is not.
Monday, July 12, 2010
LOVE POEM # 20
If your body falls out of your body
while you sleep in my stumped
watchfulness, I won't know where
of what's left to go,
magnets of now
hold us palm to palm
or arch to arch
while one's at rest
and the other roams,
this mirror-walking
on each other's frozen
seek has become
we're made of the same exact water.
Into your attic of hair
hands fly lightward
from the strong core
of a weak being,
each holds grim laughs
a dagger to the flab chest
of all lower selves,
each we sweep our kitchen
to see the other turn
wet from sink to try
clean steps into gratefulness
more to see
the features of the electric one
reflected in the floor
of the world.
Chests wet with the blood
of mutual emergency
we turn past the turning to look
into the force farther out,
further in that prompts
the turning turning. We walk
in an orchard of cascading skeletons,
each knife-sharp orb-cave cut
to painless enfolding
of all sight
by the thinnest clouds
brightest lunar skies
collide with all afternoon
our nearest clothing renewed
is a subway train
moving sideways into organism.
If your body falls out
of your body, my body will
fall out of my body to follow it.
If your body falls out of your body
while you sleep in my stumped
watchfulness, I won't know where
of what's left to go,
magnets of now
hold us palm to palm
or arch to arch
while one's at rest
and the other roams,
this mirror-walking
on each other's frozen
seek has become
we're made of the same exact water.
Into your attic of hair
hands fly lightward
from the strong core
of a weak being,
each holds grim laughs
a dagger to the flab chest
of all lower selves,
each we sweep our kitchen
to see the other turn
wet from sink to try
clean steps into gratefulness
more to see
the features of the electric one
reflected in the floor
of the world.
Chests wet with the blood
of mutual emergency
we turn past the turning to look
into the force farther out,
further in that prompts
the turning turning. We walk
in an orchard of cascading skeletons,
each knife-sharp orb-cave cut
to painless enfolding
of all sight
by the thinnest clouds
brightest lunar skies
collide with all afternoon
our nearest clothing renewed
is a subway train
moving sideways into organism.
If your body falls out
of your body, my body will
fall out of my body to follow it.
LOVE POEM # 19
at times I don't know our love's depth,
sometimes I'm walking
down a path exactly the way
I walk up it, sometimes I don't know
the sex of the daffodils.
Soon I know like a tight green bulb
that we are entwined by the vines
of grapes that I went near
but did not pick
when I was young.
We're an island on an island
on an island towering
straight from a center, wielded
slightly by the strongest centers
of others, now from every molten heart
our orbits among the length of our love
longer than our progress along it, some-
times we are late to discover
the strength of the daffodils.
at times I don't know our love's depth,
sometimes I'm walking
down a path exactly the way
I walk up it, sometimes I don't know
the sex of the daffodils.
Soon I know like a tight green bulb
that we are entwined by the vines
of grapes that I went near
but did not pick
when I was young.
We're an island on an island
on an island towering
straight from a center, wielded
slightly by the strongest centers
of others, now from every molten heart
our orbits among the length of our love
longer than our progress along it, some-
times we are late to discover
the strength of the daffodils.
Friday, July 02, 2010
LOVE POEM # 18
one voice moves through time
the other moves without it
both come from the same mouth
they sing at first
as branches underwater
sometimes simultaneous
sometimes from the center
of a bright anemone
in brighter sunlight
a whole ocean drawn back
they sing at last
each is pair upon pair
of lips
opening upon opening upon
lid upon lash upon lid
between the amphibian diagrams
of each others each
rib upon rib
both come from the same mouth
the others move without it
one voice moves through two
in time, the other moves
without them, together they ride
apart.
one voice moves through time
the other moves without it
both come from the same mouth
they sing at first
as branches underwater
sometimes simultaneous
sometimes from the center
of a bright anemone
in brighter sunlight
a whole ocean drawn back
they sing at last
each is pair upon pair
of lips
opening upon opening upon
lid upon lash upon lid
between the amphibian diagrams
of each others each
rib upon rib
both come from the same mouth
the others move without it
one voice moves through two
in time, the other moves
without them, together they ride
apart.
LOVE POEM # 17
I'll kick holes in all
the hospital walls
until a clean bed
falls out of it,
until the bright lawn glints
with brighter drops
of doctor's blood,
frozen semen chandeliers
dangling over the beds
of sleeping nurses
summer clothes adorning
a mannequin.
I'll kick the hospital walls
until you fall out
of one of the windows
and into my arms,
we'll spit at the flame ends
of the tattered blankets around you
we'll let your hair enwrap
the roots of trees every sleep
and polish our antiques
to go to work on the world,
kissing each other through poised
scissors.
I'll kick holes in all
the hospital walls
until a clean bed
falls out of it,
until the bright lawn glints
with brighter drops
of doctor's blood,
frozen semen chandeliers
dangling over the beds
of sleeping nurses
summer clothes adorning
a mannequin.
I'll kick the hospital walls
until you fall out
of one of the windows
and into my arms,
we'll spit at the flame ends
of the tattered blankets around you
we'll let your hair enwrap
the roots of trees every sleep
and polish our antiques
to go to work on the world,
kissing each other through poised
scissors.
LOVE POEM # 16
rain-touch, fur-touch,
tar touch, far
touch metallic,
wind-touch
and touch of breezes,
sky-touch, you punch a womb
into the strides of air.
rainbrush
lady fern
micro-cut
in eyeleaf & bladeside
ripping holes in underwear
the passenger seat & then
solemnly thinking
of ice-cream you--
have your amusement--
look back, someone is riding a bare deer
into the notched stem of your spine,
rain-touch, fur-touch,
tar touch, far
touch metallic,
wind-touch
and touch of breezes,
sky-touch, you punch a womb
into the strides of air.
rainbrush
lady fern
micro-cut
in eyeleaf & bladeside
ripping holes in underwear
the passenger seat & then
solemnly thinking
of ice-cream you--
have your amusement--
look back, someone is riding a bare deer
into the notched stem of your spine,
LOVE POEM # 15 Opal green
I love to sit and touch her with
that part of the blanket
that gives way
even though I know she'll never end
I cannot get sufficient portion
of nudging her bedside crying,
on those legs.
I love to crouch clamped
with the right velvet taste
in my mouth and wait
stupified by the things
she can give me;
I never know whether I miss more
her feet in the photograph or
her absence in presence
her presence in absence
I love to sit and touch her with
that part of the blanket
that gives way
even though I know she'll never end
I cannot get sufficient portion
of nudging her bedside crying,
on those legs.
I love to crouch clamped
with the right velvet taste
in my mouth and wait
stupified by the things
she can give me;
I never know whether I miss more
her feet in the photograph or
her absence in presence
her presence in absence
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
LOVE POEM # 14
I love the smell of acid rain
gas stations lit up
by useless signs, fish-scent
in the oil of ceaseless electronic air:
our two mind-capsules heavy
under the lash of eyes
from the belly of a tree,
slums answered with barks
of celebration, the poet-warrior
slumping to his last mirror.
I love the docks untidy with guts,
hammering lemon & tomato odors
in the hot air of forever,
stunning its sights into scarcity,
behind the pink eye's beyond:
one nickel parked
on a cooling driveway, I remember
a truck rattled in the empty road
until you closed the window.
I love the smell of acid rain
gas stations lit up
by useless signs, fish-scent
in the oil of ceaseless electronic air:
our two mind-capsules heavy
under the lash of eyes
from the belly of a tree,
slums answered with barks
of celebration, the poet-warrior
slumping to his last mirror.
I love the docks untidy with guts,
hammering lemon & tomato odors
in the hot air of forever,
stunning its sights into scarcity,
behind the pink eye's beyond:
one nickel parked
on a cooling driveway, I remember
a truck rattled in the empty road
until you closed the window.
early dyers, living
forever. Stuck in the eye
of a monument.
All doorways open
grapes in the threshhold
to the outside air,
fish in the black blur
of a holographic moat,
fishscale measured to the eye
snail feel menstrual protein
under the ridge
of a snarled nail
coming home to computer dinner.
Sad frog's frozen, eyes
looking out over a desk,
legs ruined to a chair,
to sit & observe: retinas
of chainsmoke,
a bad pastiche of mustaches,
sit and stare each other's
beings until the body
and its clothes are turned
high white quartz
then marble deep
in the eyes
burst-first.
forever. Stuck in the eye
of a monument.
All doorways open
grapes in the threshhold
to the outside air,
fish in the black blur
of a holographic moat,
fishscale measured to the eye
snail feel menstrual protein
under the ridge
of a snarled nail
coming home to computer dinner.
Sad frog's frozen, eyes
looking out over a desk,
legs ruined to a chair,
to sit & observe: retinas
of chainsmoke,
a bad pastiche of mustaches,
sit and stare each other's
beings until the body
and its clothes are turned
high white quartz
then marble deep
in the eyes
burst-first.
Monday, June 21, 2010
LOVE POEM # 12
the white of this dog's fur
is so white, the black of his fur
is so black, his mongoloid angel
eyes, sweetly bulge
on paths toward no path,
he runs island edges near
the bay's lap, an ocean's
reverberator, his teeth & tongue
are greetings to the air,
that dog makes a man cry
who can't cry,
his white fur disturbs the black
of one room's sofa, his black
the white canvas of another.
the white of this dog's fur
is so white, the black of his fur
is so black, his mongoloid angel
eyes, sweetly bulge
on paths toward no path,
he runs island edges near
the bay's lap, an ocean's
reverberator, his teeth & tongue
are greetings to the air,
that dog makes a man cry
who can't cry,
his white fur disturbs the black
of one room's sofa, his black
the white canvas of another.
LOVE POEM # 11
we are lust,
that is what we love with,
the skies we push out of the way
the numerous umbrellas that sheathe
our oversides,
we are a crown around
the root of a cliff-grown
sapling.
our heels dig in the same places
where our toes very recently did,
the beach we invent
overlaps the beach that invents us.
we are lust,
that is what we love with,
the skies we push out of the way
the numerous umbrellas that sheathe
our oversides,
we are a crown around
the root of a cliff-grown
sapling.
our heels dig in the same places
where our toes very recently did,
the beach we invent
overlaps the beach that invents us.
LOVE POEM # 10 Red Admiral
music-threads, my little bird
connects the connections
to the other connections
makes fertile soil moisten & surge
around the roots of the
telephone poles,
takes my poor head up into
the territory of my rich head,
moves my shins through my
elbows feelingly, the bellies of boats
are above our root,
the ceiling thatched
with underwear-leaves,
pillowed for every angle,
our bodies jutting
with bones in the tongue,
tongues in the bone,
quiet satisfactions that get louder
at their most
intimate ebb.
music-threads, my little bird
connects the connections
to the other connections
makes fertile soil moisten & surge
around the roots of the
telephone poles,
takes my poor head up into
the territory of my rich head,
moves my shins through my
elbows feelingly, the bellies of boats
are above our root,
the ceiling thatched
with underwear-leaves,
pillowed for every angle,
our bodies jutting
with bones in the tongue,
tongues in the bone,
quiet satisfactions that get louder
at their most
intimate ebb.
my shadow has two tails
one turns into your caress
the other is a spray of surf
that your caress brings me to
that room is an empty channel
I look for new ways to pronounce your name.
Sometimes I want to find
out if I have a spirit,
the way the tip of the tongue
tastes sourness,
the ceiling of everything.
-----------------------
one turns into your caress
the other is a spray of surf
that your caress brings me to
that room is an empty channel
I look for new ways to pronounce your name.
Sometimes I want to find
out if I have a spirit,
the way the tip of the tongue
tastes sourness,
the ceiling of everything.
-----------------------
----------------------we finished the page, the
brilliant script lasered into our
tent wall, green canvas in
a maze of birches, toothbrush
pathways sand-scrub bath
in faded cooler, finish, in blue
sleeping-bag interior finger vulva
finish, finish the tides with
your feet, dance the poles
upholding fishing docks, deep
into the beach, all restaurants
and deep computers shut off.
brilliant script lasered into our
tent wall, green canvas in
a maze of birches, toothbrush
pathways sand-scrub bath
in faded cooler, finish, in blue
sleeping-bag interior finger vulva
finish, finish the tides with
your feet, dance the poles
upholding fishing docks, deep
into the beach, all restaurants
and deep computers shut off.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
NO LONELINESS
there is a ledge where you
continuously flow over
even when you are pinched
in a silver mask
even when you hold your bag of guts
with stoicism, reptilian poise
you are continuously flowing over
the edge of this frozen verge
of nothingness feeding on a flock of chickens
feeding on a field of corn
aisles painted white with shit
there is a shovel you hold
when you want to kiss a religious woman
on the softest part of her mouth
the hardest edge of her
continuously overflowing
a multitude of dainty hands
(the wide white air at all backs)
on bloody balconies over and over
there is a ledge where you
continuously flow over
even when you are pinched
in a silver mask
even when you hold your bag of guts
with stoicism, reptilian poise
you are continuously flowing over
the edge of this frozen verge
of nothingness feeding on a flock of chickens
feeding on a field of corn
aisles painted white with shit
there is a shovel you hold
when you want to kiss a religious woman
on the softest part of her mouth
the hardest edge of her
continuously overflowing
a multitude of dainty hands
(the wide white air at all backs)
on bloody balconies over and over
SAD ECSTATIC COMPANIONS
for Greg
1
If we see the star tonight
we'll know it's a planet
fire from our mouths will almost
consume it. Our own planet,
our own star, will remain
as we stand within their magnetism,
patting each others spine-tops,
swilling each others pine-flavored
liquors. Vein-mouths open,
bloodshot slots of eye, a hurt flicker.
Even if we can no longer look at each other,
we can at least look
at the same things
at the same time.
2
All our late nights & early mornings
lumped together, two drunks gang-fucking
the dawn in multiple forms,
springing from corrupted wreaths,
our rustic crowns. Speed limits
kept far outdoors, unable to touch
our louder & louder lives.
Crack the one window wider,
caterpillar & moth crowd in
around several bulbs, first
sun-rays conduct
half eaten shadows of leaf,
orchestral twitching plays the grime
out of the old floorboards, our friendship.
for Greg
1
If we see the star tonight
we'll know it's a planet
fire from our mouths will almost
consume it. Our own planet,
our own star, will remain
as we stand within their magnetism,
patting each others spine-tops,
swilling each others pine-flavored
liquors. Vein-mouths open,
bloodshot slots of eye, a hurt flicker.
Even if we can no longer look at each other,
we can at least look
at the same things
at the same time.
2
All our late nights & early mornings
lumped together, two drunks gang-fucking
the dawn in multiple forms,
springing from corrupted wreaths,
our rustic crowns. Speed limits
kept far outdoors, unable to touch
our louder & louder lives.
Crack the one window wider,
caterpillar & moth crowd in
around several bulbs, first
sun-rays conduct
half eaten shadows of leaf,
orchestral twitching plays the grime
out of the old floorboards, our friendship.
Friday, May 21, 2010
LOVE POEM #9
Space so vast on all sides only opens up
when your girl's arms are linked around me,
let me be void of hurt,
the vented undersides of our love-
making clean as a throng of vented mushroom,
dark fissures breathing desperate
to make rings & wreaths of mica & moss,
aisles birch marchers toward ash calendar,
shallow roots in face of soil, leaf-terrain
pock-marked by naked heels, fern realms askew
of propane tanks quickly rusting, sandstone almost
thoroughly crumbled, fireplaces on cliff's edge
where you dropped a spotted bikini, allowed swivel
to take hold of shy belly, among newts & slugs
on inner curve of lichened fallen barks,
oaks repressed letting fall their cloak
of half-starved creatures,
to be salved of all sting, aisles
of breezy light rushing over white-haired
raspberries, gold-backed beetles all to land
against your bottom lip, ladyslippers
quaking in nubile emergence
of their fresh century,
Let bulbs break leaning upwards from
our proud foreheads, let a train of beds
left behind burn in the heat of computer
letters, then lilacs grown on rubbing alcohol
spill our glimpses on a grass that scrapes
our chests free of all afternoon cemetery
moon-rash.
Space so vast on all sides only opens up
when your girl's arms are linked around me,
let me be void of hurt,
the vented undersides of our love-
making clean as a throng of vented mushroom,
dark fissures breathing desperate
to make rings & wreaths of mica & moss,
aisles birch marchers toward ash calendar,
shallow roots in face of soil, leaf-terrain
pock-marked by naked heels, fern realms askew
of propane tanks quickly rusting, sandstone almost
thoroughly crumbled, fireplaces on cliff's edge
where you dropped a spotted bikini, allowed swivel
to take hold of shy belly, among newts & slugs
on inner curve of lichened fallen barks,
oaks repressed letting fall their cloak
of half-starved creatures,
to be salved of all sting, aisles
of breezy light rushing over white-haired
raspberries, gold-backed beetles all to land
against your bottom lip, ladyslippers
quaking in nubile emergence
of their fresh century,
Let bulbs break leaning upwards from
our proud foreheads, let a train of beds
left behind burn in the heat of computer
letters, then lilacs grown on rubbing alcohol
spill our glimpses on a grass that scrapes
our chests free of all afternoon cemetery
moon-rash.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
LOVE POEM #8
we were air
brushed out
of the picture's color-grip,
the canvas put us together at the ribs,
hinges wrapped around the others
weakest elasticpoint.
Dragonfly corpses falling down the edge
of every painting's frame,
where we are active
in lapping half-silence,
the oiled shell of a canoe.
Zeros float through the air
smiting monies to nonexistence
from the screen high on all sides
waterfalling the place into
two, that hold
the ballroom's tiles down one step at a time.
High in legal wisps, where laughter breaks,
then breaks again, we are won from sad islands
always by the same oilbrushed boat: a streak
of light fresh blazed across our wrists
two knots of bleeding silk
lashed together by dissolved space.
we were air
brushed out
of the picture's color-grip,
the canvas put us together at the ribs,
hinges wrapped around the others
weakest elasticpoint.
Dragonfly corpses falling down the edge
of every painting's frame,
where we are active
in lapping half-silence,
the oiled shell of a canoe.
Zeros float through the air
smiting monies to nonexistence
from the screen high on all sides
waterfalling the place into
two, that hold
the ballroom's tiles down one step at a time.
High in legal wisps, where laughter breaks,
then breaks again, we are won from sad islands
always by the same oilbrushed boat: a streak
of light fresh blazed across our wrists
two knots of bleeding silk
lashed together by dissolved space.
LOVE POEM #7
the tyrant of love
hammered our ghost pain
wings,
while the music went blank
all over the room. Caligulas in lipstick
marched through the fireplace,
singing mattress in half
with radioactive feet on their way to
the platform, we kiss,
we're off the room, we're immaculate
beaks
up in the ceiling corners,
tongue sparks
flick from mouth to mouth
we were hammered by charging
breastplates of gold,
soldiers let loose before our veined heavens
went mad with humble energy.
The tyrant of love
went back on his heels like a stained
mechanic, satisfied with this
final
engine.
the tyrant of love
hammered our ghost pain
wings,
while the music went blank
all over the room. Caligulas in lipstick
marched through the fireplace,
singing mattress in half
with radioactive feet on their way to
the platform, we kiss,
we're off the room, we're immaculate
beaks
up in the ceiling corners,
tongue sparks
flick from mouth to mouth
we were hammered by charging
breastplates of gold,
soldiers let loose before our veined heavens
went mad with humble energy.
The tyrant of love
went back on his heels like a stained
mechanic, satisfied with this
final
engine.
LOVE POEM # 6
there is surgery in lilac bushes
slab of granite turning to mush pile
dwarves with blood light faces,
electronic eyes
dancing in a gazebo of interacting flames
trickle of sperm & viscera
ascending a church tower
to slow the hands of a clock
there is nothing left to do
but to be together.
here's a tree-crotch pouring from its deeps
the lives of wasp babies
a torn white dress begging
for the ravage of all color
a woodland wedding where only ghost squirrels
the necks of best friends
attend to the duties of a ringbearer, light hung
from strands of bark peeling
the emptiness within images there is only
a space left in which to be together.
there is surgery in lilac bushes
slab of granite turning to mush pile
dwarves with blood light faces,
electronic eyes
dancing in a gazebo of interacting flames
trickle of sperm & viscera
ascending a church tower
to slow the hands of a clock
there is nothing left to do
but to be together.
here's a tree-crotch pouring from its deeps
the lives of wasp babies
a torn white dress begging
for the ravage of all color
a woodland wedding where only ghost squirrels
the necks of best friends
attend to the duties of a ringbearer, light hung
from strands of bark peeling
the emptiness within images there is only
a space left in which to be together.
LOVE POEM # 5
As if life has been a city
me at many attic-peaks
screaming
when a bomb goes off in depths
elsewhere
granite floors filled with my voice
recommend that all the most
intent listeners be evacuated.
As if life has been lived
only in one city, reaching in an arc
against the sky's curve
to life in another--sad macaroni
metropolis, all broken limbs
turning to unconnected elbow--
that she has saved me,
that I've saved part
of all, what I've wrecked;
our two cities join. There is much
merriment among those concerned
who will never understand, and
like a lilypad above mud, her dress.
As if life has been a city
me at many attic-peaks
screaming
when a bomb goes off in depths
elsewhere
granite floors filled with my voice
recommend that all the most
intent listeners be evacuated.
As if life has been lived
only in one city, reaching in an arc
against the sky's curve
to life in another--sad macaroni
metropolis, all broken limbs
turning to unconnected elbow--
that she has saved me,
that I've saved part
of all, what I've wrecked;
our two cities join. There is much
merriment among those concerned
who will never understand, and
like a lilypad above mud, her dress.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
LOVE POEM #4
they each, anchored in the steadfast death of organism,
in the grey stretch at the edge
of multicolored space. Our Milky Way
just a slight dash of motion
figure-skating in the reflection of your tear ducts,
plunge of lily-pad throat-stems
through the sky-floor of perfect pond
her lips on a huge screen above the swamps
emerge casting off cumulus
emerge with a tiny nape of neck
in their shrugging
in their plucking
strings beyond strings
lips all gravity-vast
eyes touched truly
with the salivary gaze of a misguided
saint, now
carved in hers to a prettier
guiding, the knifetongue
moving and never seen
seen and never moving
silken backs, the ears of sheep
leaves sliding under
our same hands,
by fanned bays disturbed
breeze under bridges
spraypainted
into stone by dying headlights
vast this canyon's
merging
they each, anchored in the steadfast death of organism,
in the grey stretch at the edge
of multicolored space. Our Milky Way
just a slight dash of motion
figure-skating in the reflection of your tear ducts,
plunge of lily-pad throat-stems
through the sky-floor of perfect pond
her lips on a huge screen above the swamps
emerge casting off cumulus
emerge with a tiny nape of neck
in their shrugging
in their plucking
strings beyond strings
lips all gravity-vast
eyes touched truly
with the salivary gaze of a misguided
saint, now
carved in hers to a prettier
guiding, the knifetongue
moving and never seen
seen and never moving
silken backs, the ears of sheep
leaves sliding under
our same hands,
by fanned bays disturbed
breeze under bridges
spraypainted
into stone by dying headlights
vast this canyon's
merging
LOVE POEM #3
they, anchored together.
the light, chrome hard hot
through antique brown leaves.
and all kitten gestures absorbed
in mittens of a bear
tree-trunks of the youngest sap
going numb & wide
all around. & I there
heel-deep in the bright
flicking ash of our gone houses
from your eyelashes,
every burnt couch flooded
with images of a veiled room
writhing.
And I will follow your breakfast mouth
like a streak of
like an appearance of
like a vein of
like a string detuned
melting fractures into jewelry.
they, anchored together.
the light, chrome hard hot
through antique brown leaves.
and all kitten gestures absorbed
in mittens of a bear
tree-trunks of the youngest sap
going numb & wide
all around. & I there
heel-deep in the bright
flicking ash of our gone houses
from your eyelashes,
every burnt couch flooded
with images of a veiled room
writhing.
And I will follow your breakfast mouth
like a streak of
like an appearance of
like a vein of
like a string detuned
melting fractures into jewelry.
LOVE POEM #2
lines of force
where there are no currents,
from imaginary acting
single magnetic that
of a long magnet, so long
at the magnetic everywhere
under these conditions
repulsion at any unit pole
of the same kind
having a greater oxygen,
salts of iron, our theory, ought
to be in air media water,
melted
in air
of two according to
great precision, limited range
in the fluid known to us,
takes the case of electric current
infinite as
the field of force
Let the axis be that
within the conductor
per unit of area
lines of force
where there are no currents,
from imaginary acting
single magnetic that
of a long magnet, so long
at the magnetic everywhere
under these conditions
repulsion at any unit pole
of the same kind
having a greater oxygen,
salts of iron, our theory, ought
to be in air media water,
melted
in air
of two according to
great precision, limited range
in the fluid known to us,
takes the case of electric current
infinite as
the field of force
Let the axis be that
within the conductor
per unit of area
LOVE POEM #1
electric currents
theory of mole
lied to magnetic phenom
so that within
in the space round it,
is the distance unit
tending to move the conductor in the
hands of a watch, if the observer
of the current.
Let us now consider an axis
in the place
and the length of the part
be its strength
in equations
of black-pink volume;
and multiplying it
so that the attraction between
will be greater than oxygen
and greater in electric currents
and greater
electric currents
theory of mole
lied to magnetic phenom
so that within
in the space round it,
is the distance unit
tending to move the conductor in the
hands of a watch, if the observer
of the current.
Let us now consider an axis
in the place
and the length of the part
be its strength
in equations
of black-pink volume;
and multiplying it
so that the attraction between
will be greater than oxygen
and greater in electric currents
and greater
Sunday, May 09, 2010
MAGNETS ON A LIGHT CAUGHT HARD
Sadness of magnetism on polarized light,
I have been ruthlessly investigated
by everyone at the peak of this soft
blow-job town, Italian sandwich
dripping dressing down the cast
of my ribs. The devastated parks
made public by raging fire. Every mammal
in the drowned room
standing wobbled
marble feet in hot reef.
All eyes reptilian shut
against parking lot
dark. We saw a cloud expand
we shared an asshole.
At the drooping center of vagina
choking heart meat, rubbing off for steady
fluorescent hours, hair
of an artichoke. As the slowest point
of magnetism dissolves, we discover
the most terrible center
of intimate mystery is through
our only buttocks, in the direction
of the awful whole, particles
within the space, we shall have.
Sadness
has been emerging
of the deep blow-job time
in a dumb basement heart
of neglectful library,
half panther oil, dark
as lamp-shade, underside deadened
one gravity's center-center
of dying armchair,
Sadness of magnetism on polarized light,
I have been ruthlessly investigated
by everyone at the peak of this soft
blow-job town, Italian sandwich
dripping dressing down the cast
of my ribs. The devastated parks
made public by raging fire. Every mammal
in the drowned room
standing wobbled
marble feet in hot reef.
All eyes reptilian shut
against parking lot
dark. We saw a cloud expand
we shared an asshole.
At the drooping center of vagina
choking heart meat, rubbing off for steady
fluorescent hours, hair
of an artichoke. As the slowest point
of magnetism dissolves, we discover
the most terrible center
of intimate mystery is through
our only buttocks, in the direction
of the awful whole, particles
within the space, we shall have.
Sadness
has been emerging
of the deep blow-job time
in a dumb basement heart
of neglectful library,
half panther oil, dark
as lamp-shade, underside deadened
one gravity's center-center
of dying armchair,
Saturday, May 08, 2010
A SHORT DRIVE OVER AND OVER
foam horses cover the stone hills
in eternal front yards
eyes widen in sidecar mirrors
white paint lines whipping past rubber
eyeliner
we are floating an ashtray between us
on a tarnished front seat
bloodied with broken crow wings
horn honking all day
making tunnels of blue tar sound
over the puddled parking lots
with a rain of delicately dropped lipsticks
we are floating an ashtray between us
full of kangaroo heart
building infant with closed soft eyes
with a bit of inner-blooming blood
in a dry fur pouch
beaches scorched to glass like tortured water
flanks touched by slow loving acid of low surf
two snouts touching in the cough
of fragile new motors
foam horses cover the stone hills
in eternal front yards
eyes widen in sidecar mirrors
white paint lines whipping past rubber
eyeliner
we are floating an ashtray between us
on a tarnished front seat
bloodied with broken crow wings
horn honking all day
making tunnels of blue tar sound
over the puddled parking lots
with a rain of delicately dropped lipsticks
we are floating an ashtray between us
full of kangaroo heart
building infant with closed soft eyes
with a bit of inner-blooming blood
in a dry fur pouch
beaches scorched to glass like tortured water
flanks touched by slow loving acid of low surf
two snouts touching in the cough
of fragile new motors
Monday, May 03, 2010
1. WEDNESDAY'S THURSDAY MORNING
make the blocks of sound
heavier, until they plow
all these creatures into the soil.
Make their day a yellow blur
painted by digital
ghosts on the huge shell
that surrounds their actual fucking lives.
push harder through soil
things that kill mankind
with their equipment;
grab their boats and fling
them off like leaves,
from a rhododendron bush
left untended by awful giants
with mail slot eyes.
2. MONDAY'S TUESDAY NIGHT
school of fish
came frantic through
television,
tiny dots took over
huge spaces left
by retired stars.
we'd barely leaped
over the wall of nakedness,
freckled with nowhere,
bound by the slime
on pond floor
while the pinecones
whirl in the air
and the machines all gape.
make the blocks of sound
heavier, until they plow
all these creatures into the soil.
Make their day a yellow blur
painted by digital
ghosts on the huge shell
that surrounds their actual fucking lives.
push harder through soil
things that kill mankind
with their equipment;
grab their boats and fling
them off like leaves,
from a rhododendron bush
left untended by awful giants
with mail slot eyes.
2. MONDAY'S TUESDAY NIGHT
school of fish
came frantic through
television,
tiny dots took over
huge spaces left
by retired stars.
we'd barely leaped
over the wall of nakedness,
freckled with nowhere,
bound by the slime
on pond floor
while the pinecones
whirl in the air
and the machines all gape.
Sunday, May 02, 2010
COMMON DININGS
white marble dishes hover
halfway between greasy cafeteria tables
and immaculate ceiling
fans blow columns of active air
down to meet tabletops exactly
in the center white marble
dishes widen the disturbance
of silence in the center
of artificial breezes
pestles grind immaterial
spices from ancient tomb-time
herbs from elsewhere
midway to the dead heaven
above the heads--hair flattened
by dense conditioned air--of
the students of oblivion
left without flowers to guard
the applerot soft
temples above ears
nudged by ten thousand hums
until the magnolia trees fall
through two-story tall
windows and spill
their blossom fragrance
on the altars of young mouths, sex hysteria
chewing pond-meat
of unidentified amphibeans
the tadpole textures
tongue-drunk as arms are slashed
by falling panes as tall as houses, heavens
kept unsensed in electric
bathrooms third floor ephemeral
attics spraying hog sides with sawdust guns
palm-lines alive with sperm-trickle
slapping mirrors to revive
the yawn and a garden snake
navigating pebble roofs
of interdimension.
white marble dishes hover
halfway between greasy cafeteria tables
and immaculate ceiling
fans blow columns of active air
down to meet tabletops exactly
in the center white marble
dishes widen the disturbance
of silence in the center
of artificial breezes
pestles grind immaterial
spices from ancient tomb-time
herbs from elsewhere
midway to the dead heaven
above the heads--hair flattened
by dense conditioned air--of
the students of oblivion
left without flowers to guard
the applerot soft
temples above ears
nudged by ten thousand hums
until the magnolia trees fall
through two-story tall
windows and spill
their blossom fragrance
on the altars of young mouths, sex hysteria
chewing pond-meat
of unidentified amphibeans
the tadpole textures
tongue-drunk as arms are slashed
by falling panes as tall as houses, heavens
kept unsensed in electric
bathrooms third floor ephemeral
attics spraying hog sides with sawdust guns
palm-lines alive with sperm-trickle
slapping mirrors to revive
the yawn and a garden snake
navigating pebble roofs
of interdimension.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
CONCRETE CANALS
The new womb is cut in half
I surround myself with people
just to sit and watch them die
light flows from the television; it feels
as if the very winds are sapped of savagery
by its rectangular river glowing.
I can see through lunacolored chainlink
all the patches of dead grass
where last summer I dropped my guitar
in a fit of drunkenness
and pines like tentpoles toppled on me
homophobics picked up by wifepolice
in the belly of the soil we all
in the belly of the soil belching we croak
our little laments into digital mole-tunnel,
lips pushed back raw to the gums
by the oldest special effects.
The small surf lapping at a slant
of the concrete wakes me want to kiss
wet tiny shards of glass
on the gravel everywhere
where this species that shares my blood
walks treading on their foul products,
rebuilding the robot maids
that guide its days.
The old womb is cut in fourths
I become the genitals of a mythical creature
the kitchen table is made to float
up hard against the sharpening
of my elbows; light is not alive
the creatures under it are eating
the crawl of neon across
ashes woven together
of an old pillowcase
concrete canals
are steering a fish for the mouth
to the absence of our one moon.
The new womb is cut in half
I surround myself with people
just to sit and watch them die
light flows from the television; it feels
as if the very winds are sapped of savagery
by its rectangular river glowing.
I can see through lunacolored chainlink
all the patches of dead grass
where last summer I dropped my guitar
in a fit of drunkenness
and pines like tentpoles toppled on me
homophobics picked up by wifepolice
in the belly of the soil we all
in the belly of the soil belching we croak
our little laments into digital mole-tunnel,
lips pushed back raw to the gums
by the oldest special effects.
The small surf lapping at a slant
of the concrete wakes me want to kiss
wet tiny shards of glass
on the gravel everywhere
where this species that shares my blood
walks treading on their foul products,
rebuilding the robot maids
that guide its days.
The old womb is cut in fourths
I become the genitals of a mythical creature
the kitchen table is made to float
up hard against the sharpening
of my elbows; light is not alive
the creatures under it are eating
the crawl of neon across
ashes woven together
of an old pillowcase
concrete canals
are steering a fish for the mouth
to the absence of our one moon.
Friday, April 23, 2010
WEEKEND DREAMS
For brushing the highway clean
with a broom of horse tail
I was given in my cupped hands
clamshells writhing with
licorice-black maggots
a rainbow trapped triangular
in an apricot tin
four amphibious rectums in the realm of
forehead just above my scorched lashes
a wife with chrome insides to steer
toward the drive-in movie through
forests of vines that no longer need trees
and alleyways of coral no longer supported
by oceans, marble streetlamps bulbed
with lizard bellies taking on the light
of foreign stars: all glowing in the aftermath
of a torn wide sun, radios going wild.
Bikini bottoms puffing up so faintly
hung on antennas in what wide kisses earth
breathes up through concrete
slow to return to the death in a hot hard parking lot
crucified sideways on information television
holding a small dog in your small dog hands,
a morning we share, heavy as a bad spacecraft;
plowed highways slam into the sides of coffeeshops;
old kettles rattle a fresh hard-on's last shackles.
For brushing the highway clean
with a broom of horse tail
I was given in my cupped hands
clamshells writhing with
licorice-black maggots
a rainbow trapped triangular
in an apricot tin
four amphibious rectums in the realm of
forehead just above my scorched lashes
a wife with chrome insides to steer
toward the drive-in movie through
forests of vines that no longer need trees
and alleyways of coral no longer supported
by oceans, marble streetlamps bulbed
with lizard bellies taking on the light
of foreign stars: all glowing in the aftermath
of a torn wide sun, radios going wild.
Bikini bottoms puffing up so faintly
hung on antennas in what wide kisses earth
breathes up through concrete
slow to return to the death in a hot hard parking lot
crucified sideways on information television
holding a small dog in your small dog hands,
a morning we share, heavy as a bad spacecraft;
plowed highways slam into the sides of coffeeshops;
old kettles rattle a fresh hard-on's last shackles.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
I see a radiant world coming out
from the black core between
the yellow petals of a susan
flower. I see from the charcoal heart
a silver glitter, fragments from
deep through the stem deep
through the whole round earth and out
the other side and far beyond
into a universe being drained
to collapse
its off-white purity
like a new bedroom being killed
with echoes.
I see a girl in multi-colored dress
(though these colors are like
no other shade I've seen
in gardens of before) stepping out
from the center of the flower, and as
she carefully avoids stepping on
a praying mantis she moves towards me,
her every freckle and cell a healing
particle, her flesh-petals apart
from all other plants, she holds me
to my roots in the earth, that grow
beyond the earth, my eyes that look
from behind my eyes and all around
the goldenrod twitch
from dry season to dry season
until they begin to bleed
their own version of water.
The shingles turn to creature skin,
the creature they are is new
under a new sky, we are tortured
by our happiness, I see
the glint near and intimate, of
the girl's world melting down her eyes
the girl's world melting down her dress,
the girl's world is my hands, these
other objects are my hands, also she lives
in all the things that connect, I die
to all the things that disconnect.
from the black core between
the yellow petals of a susan
flower. I see from the charcoal heart
a silver glitter, fragments from
deep through the stem deep
through the whole round earth and out
the other side and far beyond
into a universe being drained
to collapse
its off-white purity
like a new bedroom being killed
with echoes.
I see a girl in multi-colored dress
(though these colors are like
no other shade I've seen
in gardens of before) stepping out
from the center of the flower, and as
she carefully avoids stepping on
a praying mantis she moves towards me,
her every freckle and cell a healing
particle, her flesh-petals apart
from all other plants, she holds me
to my roots in the earth, that grow
beyond the earth, my eyes that look
from behind my eyes and all around
the goldenrod twitch
from dry season to dry season
until they begin to bleed
their own version of water.
The shingles turn to creature skin,
the creature they are is new
under a new sky, we are tortured
by our happiness, I see
the glint near and intimate, of
the girl's world melting down her eyes
the girl's world melting down her dress,
the girl's world is my hands, these
other objects are my hands, also she lives
in all the things that connect, I die
to all the things that disconnect.
I'm suspended somewhere deep
in a moderately huge machine,
with too many arms & legs, too many
orifices enwrapping too
many fingertips. My core
pulled out like a frog's scalpelled
spine.
And I leave again & again
until my leaving sticks
and my staying replaces my center in
a gathering of slim-toothed goats,
over & out, 2 big bears & a jumpsuit
drawing too much
cartoon heat
for the silence of all beauty
to manhandle.
in a moderately huge machine,
with too many arms & legs, too many
orifices enwrapping too
many fingertips. My core
pulled out like a frog's scalpelled
spine.
And I leave again & again
until my leaving sticks
and my staying replaces my center in
a gathering of slim-toothed goats,
over & out, 2 big bears & a jumpsuit
drawing too much
cartoon heat
for the silence of all beauty
to manhandle.
Friday, April 16, 2010
where the blind lose all evidence of triangles
lightheaded businessmen walk
in constant sneakers treading on the rhythm
of the rhythm of the rhythm of the rhythm.
while I climbed a weeping willow
covered in hot rain & little paper dragons.
oh you have so little color
in your movements how
the shopwindows steal
your whole frame & face
while you are looking at looking at looking at.
lightheaded businessmen walk
in constant sneakers treading on the rhythm
of the rhythm of the rhythm of the rhythm.
while I climbed a weeping willow
covered in hot rain & little paper dragons.
oh you have so little color
in your movements how
the shopwindows steal
your whole frame & face
while you are looking at looking at looking at.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
in your first backyard
there will be a woman
with her arms outstretched
gripping stalks of sunflower
lightest breezes heavier
than all the weight at her center
one rooster out of three
struts with a bloody comb
he left his blood
and the blood of his brothers
on the peel of a young birch
a battered coathanger
holding a huge rose
the woman's picked him up
to stroke his bloody feathers
he has thirty hens to pleasure
here's a few verses before you collect the eggs
stories for you & the claws
on the rooster's thumbs
things born deep in fire
return to the furnace
there will be a woman
with her arms outstretched
gripping stalks of sunflower
lightest breezes heavier
than all the weight at her center
one rooster out of three
struts with a bloody comb
he left his blood
and the blood of his brothers
on the peel of a young birch
a battered coathanger
holding a huge rose
the woman's picked him up
to stroke his bloody feathers
he has thirty hens to pleasure
here's a few verses before you collect the eggs
stories for you & the claws
on the rooster's thumbs
things born deep in fire
return to the furnace
Thursday, April 08, 2010
a rain of angry hands upon the airport
piles of multicolored helmets
in front of government houses.
a haircut for all trees near to our channeled
electricity, one thousand bees
clotted in the air like a flash of TV
static all over, for hot orange hours
on the porch, extraneous nipples exposed
to the useless sun
to the useless moon
the one local satellite hovers
near all weather-causing stations
in a hurtful mirage.
the many hands win nothing
with their protest-worship
the great machine gun
continues to dominate
the gentlest air.
a rain of larger and larger nothings
on the lightyear-dampened sun
receding to make room for its younger
piles of multicolored helmets
in front of government houses.
a haircut for all trees near to our channeled
electricity, one thousand bees
clotted in the air like a flash of TV
static all over, for hot orange hours
on the porch, extraneous nipples exposed
to the useless sun
to the useless moon
the one local satellite hovers
near all weather-causing stations
in a hurtful mirage.
the many hands win nothing
with their protest-worship
the great machine gun
continues to dominate
the gentlest air.
a rain of larger and larger nothings
on the lightyear-dampened sun
receding to make room for its younger
Monday, March 29, 2010
we don't sleep, don't need the hum
of sleep, but erupting morning
after erupting morning
volcanic and we watch the churches
and the laundromats act
like churches and laundromats
under depths of water dark
as green & blue can go
oceans drawn up
at the feet of lighthouses
whose circuit boards
pour electric tongues
down naked throats
skylights flap like epiglottis
music that pricks ozone
turns saxophone from tenor to bass
in pairs of hands that flower on insomniac
torsos that never felt the rain
without raining lower & longer
than any storm earth's skies
can provide.
of sleep, but erupting morning
after erupting morning
volcanic and we watch the churches
and the laundromats act
like churches and laundromats
under depths of water dark
as green & blue can go
oceans drawn up
at the feet of lighthouses
whose circuit boards
pour electric tongues
down naked throats
skylights flap like epiglottis
music that pricks ozone
turns saxophone from tenor to bass
in pairs of hands that flower on insomniac
torsos that never felt the rain
without raining lower & longer
than any storm earth's skies
can provide.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
uh Heart Crossed off the Charts
I'm that faggot girl
up lighted in the blackout A.M.
I'm that faggot girl
in the ballroom corner
born without a uterus
taken on a cruise to celebrate
my infertility
you're not enough to prowl
linoleum squares with me
in tow, your awful
eye make-up & underwear
decorated with bears & giraffes
foolish child in pink
pajama jumpsuit
fostering nervous breakdown
in your elder admirers
making the mascara tears
cover the manhole covers
entirely in awful purples,
& so eager to see how
eagerly you'll kiss the convenience store
I'm that faggot girl
up lighted in the blackout A.M.
I'm that faggot girl
in the ballroom corner
born without a uterus
taken on a cruise to celebrate
my infertility
you're not enough to prowl
linoleum squares with me
in tow, your awful
eye make-up & underwear
decorated with bears & giraffes
foolish child in pink
pajama jumpsuit
fostering nervous breakdown
in your elder admirers
making the mascara tears
cover the manhole covers
entirely in awful purples,
& so eager to see how
eagerly you'll kiss the convenience store
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
I look for the one who
while everyone else laughs
is scorched by the movie,
for the Eskimo on summer
sidewalks who was pushed
like a scarecrow of hailstones
out of the dinner party,
for that girl knitting condoms
of seaweed's darkest green
for her genderless friends,
I seek those whose stomachs
can never be acidic enough,
whose ulcers come to be
small bubbles on the multiverse's
bulging moldsilverblue clusters,
I look for those to whom
this message is already a waste
of time because it can't find them.
while everyone else laughs
is scorched by the movie,
for the Eskimo on summer
sidewalks who was pushed
like a scarecrow of hailstones
out of the dinner party,
for that girl knitting condoms
of seaweed's darkest green
for her genderless friends,
I seek those whose stomachs
can never be acidic enough,
whose ulcers come to be
small bubbles on the multiverse's
bulging moldsilverblue clusters,
I look for those to whom
this message is already a waste
of time because it can't find them.
Monday, March 08, 2010
HIGHWAY THROUGH THE POND'S MIDDLE
you take the handle to start hog up
(salamanders move
their orange 'cross wet tar)
avoid their bodies with your motors tires
ribcage crunch, tiny hearts
you wish for a crash to throw you down
to the swamp or the spiders that rule the dust
on the runway's ramp where the creatures merge
the purge of sunlight from broken
radio hole
we watch on our larger cages
the orange skin
take over the tent of our frames
and coat the rotting logs
with live
lizard
you take the handle to start hog up
(salamanders move
their orange 'cross wet tar)
avoid their bodies with your motors tires
ribcage crunch, tiny hearts
you wish for a crash to throw you down
to the swamp or the spiders that rule the dust
on the runway's ramp where the creatures merge
the purge of sunlight from broken
radio hole
we watch on our larger cages
the orange skin
take over the tent of our frames
and coat the rotting logs
with live
lizard
Monday, March 01, 2010
a female in fashionable rags comes toward
through the ballfield hologram
of a chainlink fence to march
right into my arms. She says:
I can hear you screaming
in the hallways of this world to be
left out. The end of this tall black fence
is just a tilted little puddle
you can jump all the way storybook through
crystallized on a bicycle seat
a snail's antlers frozen salted
hurting all the eyes of the air
put forth this morning a fist in brown leather
of subnormal pitchforker
beating a drum with a severed limb
half of the crown on his head.
Mom was washing a dull golden dog
in a groaning tub, paws were kicking
the heavens were overturning all hell,
the saltshakers were upright next
to the peppers, then huge robot arms--
through the ballfield hologram
of a chainlink fence to march
right into my arms. She says:
I can hear you screaming
in the hallways of this world to be
left out. The end of this tall black fence
is just a tilted little puddle
you can jump all the way storybook through
crystallized on a bicycle seat
a snail's antlers frozen salted
hurting all the eyes of the air
put forth this morning a fist in brown leather
of subnormal pitchforker
beating a drum with a severed limb
half of the crown on his head.
Mom was washing a dull golden dog
in a groaning tub, paws were kicking
the heavens were overturning all hell,
the saltshakers were upright next
to the peppers, then huge robot arms--
Saturday, February 27, 2010
DOVES EAT LEMON PIES, FRONT_ROW
I'm not sure how to spend my time anymore,
if I can't spend it all weeping.
I think of the rages and joys
of all my life, and wonder simply
"what was that all about??".
I just burst out cackling wildly
in the middle of a foggy sentence
that I happened to be speaking,
trapped in jail.
Bees disrupt the color of my hands,
all radiance come down to spill my guts,
and a handle of burger to flourish
from the waist of my pine shadow.
A telephone pole of black light, tar dark
on its torso & antlers, reaching all its
ringing anti-ecstasy into the stretched tarps
of vast disembodied ear.
2 skulls that knock together
chin & bridge of nose
interlocking blades
surrounded by every
engine.
Weeping continues in the banks
as well as the alleyways.
CROWS GULP BLUEBERRIES
WHILE STANDING NECK_TIED
AT AN ARTIFICIAL SHORELINE.
I'm not sure how to spend my time anymore,
if I can't spend it all weeping.
I think of the rages and joys
of all my life, and wonder simply
"what was that all about??".
I just burst out cackling wildly
in the middle of a foggy sentence
that I happened to be speaking,
trapped in jail.
Bees disrupt the color of my hands,
all radiance come down to spill my guts,
and a handle of burger to flourish
from the waist of my pine shadow.
A telephone pole of black light, tar dark
on its torso & antlers, reaching all its
ringing anti-ecstasy into the stretched tarps
of vast disembodied ear.
2 skulls that knock together
chin & bridge of nose
interlocking blades
surrounded by every
engine.
Weeping continues in the banks
as well as the alleyways.
CROWS GULP BLUEBERRIES
WHILE STANDING NECK_TIED
AT AN ARTIFICIAL SHORELINE.
Friday, February 26, 2010
I'LL LET THE LIGHT TRICKLE THROUGH MY FINGERS HANDS
AS WE KNEEL ON THE FLOORS DOORWAYS
OF YOUR LAST FULL-FORMED MEMORY
I kneel in the cells of a slanting house
say "the rain is infinite" but know
it's not, I beg the senseless air
for company. The pissing of skies
traps me in my room, holds voices
of all others force-fielded far away.
I stop in the calls of a smashed drainpipe
to bring my walk down to a railroad sound.
I let the whole street come up
through my wrists. Streetlamps
tower & crown
my only shoulders.
I stop near a tongue-kiss memory
in the quiet hurricane of a concrete stairwell.
(It's a house I built steadfastly when I was unwell.)
We hated every moment of it's dilligent
progress, & faded blue-green down,
moss everyone.
AS WE KNEEL ON THE FLOORS DOORWAYS
OF YOUR LAST FULL-FORMED MEMORY
I kneel in the cells of a slanting house
say "the rain is infinite" but know
it's not, I beg the senseless air
for company. The pissing of skies
traps me in my room, holds voices
of all others force-fielded far away.
I stop in the calls of a smashed drainpipe
to bring my walk down to a railroad sound.
I let the whole street come up
through my wrists. Streetlamps
tower & crown
my only shoulders.
I stop near a tongue-kiss memory
in the quiet hurricane of a concrete stairwell.
(It's a house I built steadfastly when I was unwell.)
We hated every moment of it's dilligent
progress, & faded blue-green down,
moss everyone.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
there are two lives: one with friendships,
one without, both equally beautiful,
both equally irrelevant. Who needs
other bodies will speak of other bodies,
who speaks of other bodies will need
other bodies, in imagination.
How sad, to eat blue berries
thinking of this, and the rot in the gut,
and horror of the stained white
flickering at the bottom of the bucket.
one without, both equally beautiful,
both equally irrelevant. Who needs
other bodies will speak of other bodies,
who speaks of other bodies will need
other bodies, in imagination.
How sad, to eat blue berries
thinking of this, and the rot in the gut,
and horror of the stained white
flickering at the bottom of the bucket.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
A small lizard
from the melting skids
of a burnt tire
could fit
in its dying writhe
through the seam
of my shaking hand's palm.
Only we in its death throes
will know the quietness
of its last protest.
But its tongue flickers,
a brown flame from the hearth
of a life we abandoned
when we gained fur.
The skin it sheds
is coating still
the severed hand
I left behind,
with one of my favorite
fellow mammals,
when the yellowed eyes
of the fur-wearers
wore out
and I saw their emptiness
in the reptilian tunnels
they had avoided crawling
ever before I
entered and willingly let sag
my halves of skin.
from the melting skids
of a burnt tire
could fit
in its dying writhe
through the seam
of my shaking hand's palm.
Only we in its death throes
will know the quietness
of its last protest.
But its tongue flickers,
a brown flame from the hearth
of a life we abandoned
when we gained fur.
The skin it sheds
is coating still
the severed hand
I left behind,
with one of my favorite
fellow mammals,
when the yellowed eyes
of the fur-wearers
wore out
and I saw their emptiness
in the reptilian tunnels
they had avoided crawling
ever before I
entered and willingly let sag
my halves of skin.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
I cut her slim belly open twice,
once above the navel and once below the navel.
I push stones through each incision, both ovoid,
each looking like Brancusi's
Sculpture For the Blind.
I tell her, "I hope this is my best
cataclysm". She readies herself
to carry these articles within her,
and asks me to walk hand-in-hand
with her, as I talk ceaselessly,
gloomily, about what, I cannot tell.
She grips my hand tighter
and uses her other hand
to hold the slits shut
that I cannot stitch.
Watching this all from a distance,
I know I am not a surgeon, or a murderer.
Watching all this from a distance,
I don't know if I am a surgeon,
I don't know if I am a murderer.
Watching all this from a distance,
I don't know if I'm watching this
from a distance.
I have a thread wired into my hamstrings
that was shipped from a floating saucer
hospital to fix her belly,
and in the numb bulb of my groin
a salad scoop for the stones.
I keep these things
meant to help her form
in my form, in order to inflict
pain upon us both.
She knows from my cringing walk
that I carry these instruments.
She grips my hand tighter still,
the sweat thicker than the blood
that seeps against her other,
and begs to be allowed
to heal me.
once above the navel and once below the navel.
I push stones through each incision, both ovoid,
each looking like Brancusi's
Sculpture For the Blind.
I tell her, "I hope this is my best
cataclysm". She readies herself
to carry these articles within her,
and asks me to walk hand-in-hand
with her, as I talk ceaselessly,
gloomily, about what, I cannot tell.
She grips my hand tighter
and uses her other hand
to hold the slits shut
that I cannot stitch.
Watching this all from a distance,
I know I am not a surgeon, or a murderer.
Watching all this from a distance,
I don't know if I am a surgeon,
I don't know if I am a murderer.
Watching all this from a distance,
I don't know if I'm watching this
from a distance.
I have a thread wired into my hamstrings
that was shipped from a floating saucer
hospital to fix her belly,
and in the numb bulb of my groin
a salad scoop for the stones.
I keep these things
meant to help her form
in my form, in order to inflict
pain upon us both.
She knows from my cringing walk
that I carry these instruments.
She grips my hand tighter still,
the sweat thicker than the blood
that seeps against her other,
and begs to be allowed
to heal me.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Monday, February 01, 2010
snail on a dandelion leaf
opens a hole of empty white light
in the spiral of his shell
his mucus-trail turns to hottest fire
the dandelion clock goes
rapidly back to yellow after firing its seeds
into the dying
pink horizon.
I offer my palm
to the inching of this visitor
from a dimension of tightly-woven,
never-dying, heavily compacted light.
He crawls through a faint stigmata
the only part of my hand that is still there.
opens a hole of empty white light
in the spiral of his shell
his mucus-trail turns to hottest fire
the dandelion clock goes
rapidly back to yellow after firing its seeds
into the dying
pink horizon.
I offer my palm
to the inching of this visitor
from a dimension of tightly-woven,
never-dying, heavily compacted light.
He crawls through a faint stigmata
the only part of my hand that is still there.
Friday, January 29, 2010
SPARROWS ON EACH SIDE SLIDING
My moratory body, gives me a moment of loved
disintegration, sparrows are on the bush
to the left of my floating ribcage
parkbench burns beneath me
I'll never get up in time,
the sparrows are holding
thin branches between
their twig feet fingers--
they shame me obscurely; not to be one
with their twitchy midst, but in not
watching closely enough--
I have erred, black tires
on black ice; and a floppy carrot
through my sadding heart, soft rot body
Their bodies of leaves,
atomic intricate,
flutter other bodies out of shape.
Antennaes buried deep
in each grave small forehead
down toward the nostrils of the beak.
Their eyes and bodies moving sweetly
separately. Their brown eyes
in bodies, moving sweetly separately.
Their brown eyes in brown bodies,
chests downy of white
atop the heavy-scented
hedges of low pine brush,
hung on a puff of exhaust
and not on the hope
of a human breath
OF THE EMERGENCY ROOM DOOR.
My moratory body, gives me a moment of loved
disintegration, sparrows are on the bush
to the left of my floating ribcage
parkbench burns beneath me
I'll never get up in time,
the sparrows are holding
thin branches between
their twig feet fingers--
they shame me obscurely; not to be one
with their twitchy midst, but in not
watching closely enough--
I have erred, black tires
on black ice; and a floppy carrot
through my sadding heart, soft rot body
Their bodies of leaves,
atomic intricate,
flutter other bodies out of shape.
Antennaes buried deep
in each grave small forehead
down toward the nostrils of the beak.
Their eyes and bodies moving sweetly
separately. Their brown eyes
in bodies, moving sweetly separately.
Their brown eyes in brown bodies,
chests downy of white
atop the heavy-scented
hedges of low pine brush,
hung on a puff of exhaust
and not on the hope
of a human breath
OF THE EMERGENCY ROOM DOOR.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Girl-bone, born in small barns,
from a skeleton-leaf wood,
trailing a cape of bloodied feathers,
coming toward, me with my pork-chop mouth,
carrying a distraction of flowers.
Girl in ladyslippers, toting a computer
briefcase that quacks like a duck.
My mischief of little remedies,
my last great love before dying,
no matter what years it takes
my sad body to kill me.
A milk-yoke in a plastic forest,
an apple cored and thrown
among the ferns,
carrying all your old hurts,
a brave little lady.
I want to get out of my body
and cloak you with a hood
of anti-matter. I'd like
to find something to feed you with
that comes before and after time.
Take my body, though it's not enough;
protect the work of my hands,
though the world iced it.
from a skeleton-leaf wood,
trailing a cape of bloodied feathers,
coming toward, me with my pork-chop mouth,
carrying a distraction of flowers.
Girl in ladyslippers, toting a computer
briefcase that quacks like a duck.
My mischief of little remedies,
my last great love before dying,
no matter what years it takes
my sad body to kill me.
A milk-yoke in a plastic forest,
an apple cored and thrown
among the ferns,
carrying all your old hurts,
a brave little lady.
I want to get out of my body
and cloak you with a hood
of anti-matter. I'd like
to find something to feed you with
that comes before and after time.
Take my body, though it's not enough;
protect the work of my hands,
though the world iced it.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Make my plot of land a tigerspawn of brushfires.
My will and testament a litany of fly droppings.
My marriage a union of broken ice-springs
in a moss cathedral.
And my birthright a trumpet the factory
never cranked out.
Time pulls its garters up its untimely legs
and gathers its hurts into the grocery store.
Time gathered is a studio built in a vault
of withering stars.
Time gathered is you like a microphone
next to my throat.
Make my pores the wreckage-pits
of other's smallest bones,
without much left to break, canyon kisses,
jellyfish deaths
far in all we never know.
My will and testament a litany of fly droppings.
My marriage a union of broken ice-springs
in a moss cathedral.
And my birthright a trumpet the factory
never cranked out.
Time pulls its garters up its untimely legs
and gathers its hurts into the grocery store.
Time gathered is a studio built in a vault
of withering stars.
Time gathered is you like a microphone
next to my throat.
Make my pores the wreckage-pits
of other's smallest bones,
without much left to break, canyon kisses,
jellyfish deaths
far in all we never know.
Friday, January 15, 2010
French kiss in a river of neon
subway tongues dirty as two pigeons
belts tense with hands in the hooks
feet twisted by movements of strangers
if we don't get each other out of
here, our eyes will drown
to death in each other
beneath the climate-control
canopies, dear.
Someone tripped over a dollar
& into a feather cut. No more
mating plumage.
subway tongues dirty as two pigeons
belts tense with hands in the hooks
feet twisted by movements of strangers
if we don't get each other out of
here, our eyes will drown
to death in each other
beneath the climate-control
canopies, dear.
Someone tripped over a dollar
& into a feather cut. No more
mating plumage.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
We shut her in a soft room. She ate the walls.
We put her in a tall bottle. She stayed
until a tadpole grew as her tongue
then squeezed a pregnant belly outward
until the glass showered.
Her tears sprayed antique walls.
She thought she could see the scales
on every scale of a leaving snake.
We shut her up in a strong room.
She thought concrete into soil
and departed through the earth.
He hides his mouth in a deeper cavern,
letting her walk over the linoleum array
of his many teeth.
We put her in a tall bottle. She stayed
until a tadpole grew as her tongue
then squeezed a pregnant belly outward
until the glass showered.
Her tears sprayed antique walls.
She thought she could see the scales
on every scale of a leaving snake.
We shut her up in a strong room.
She thought concrete into soil
and departed through the earth.
He hides his mouth in a deeper cavern,
letting her walk over the linoleum array
of his many teeth.
Monday, January 11, 2010
from an oily mouth comes
a clean flood of tongue
a ship's floor full of standing daggers
and the eyes of a child
on the tonsil that turns into a snakehead
blossom sadly
then a road of deer-trampled snow
and a girl in reptilian coat
who says: these powerlines
are serpents leading you home
follow them to a hearth
or leave their squeeze before fire
for a desert highway
where you will lie down
your weathered skull crack
fragile tar
man's crust which is cracking
man's crust from under which
a vast skin is resurfacing
a clean flood of tongue
a ship's floor full of standing daggers
and the eyes of a child
on the tonsil that turns into a snakehead
blossom sadly
then a road of deer-trampled snow
and a girl in reptilian coat
who says: these powerlines
are serpents leading you home
follow them to a hearth
or leave their squeeze before fire
for a desert highway
where you will lie down
your weathered skull crack
fragile tar
man's crust which is cracking
man's crust from under which
a vast skin is resurfacing
Thursday, January 07, 2010
We run barefoot on a globe of needlecarpet
trying to call each other's names,
not knowing the names. Two throats
open to the air. Two bodies run
for more breath, thinking that their rush
will fill them with enough to call
across the planet's prickly miles.
This is twilight activity;
in the noons & nights we build
chain-link fences in many places,
hoping that a friendly playground
or neighborhood will erupt
where we can reside between the rattles
in metallic breezes.
We run barefoot to a shoestore
that closed decades ago, trying
to buy something that will move us
faster on our heels towards
the beginnings of us together.
Our lives move at the pace
of the cash register's pleasureless
pleasure, then run
with the rhythm of blood.
trying to call each other's names,
not knowing the names. Two throats
open to the air. Two bodies run
for more breath, thinking that their rush
will fill them with enough to call
across the planet's prickly miles.
This is twilight activity;
in the noons & nights we build
chain-link fences in many places,
hoping that a friendly playground
or neighborhood will erupt
where we can reside between the rattles
in metallic breezes.
We run barefoot to a shoestore
that closed decades ago, trying
to buy something that will move us
faster on our heels towards
the beginnings of us together.
Our lives move at the pace
of the cash register's pleasureless
pleasure, then run
with the rhythm of blood.
Monday, December 28, 2009
A hood of vapor sipping wine
Pause at this ledge, clutching white entrails,
cursing brother back in a womb, who comes
through so much delay to locate me,
sitting at luxurious table with legs crossed
like awful scissors, to pound the earth in its mercy
between ribs, to let him in through root, stone,
to pause at this ledge with his pulse in my hand
discovering the outerside of outside-ways.
To pause in his frame, with my person, an owl
overlooking our efforts from a fork
in married pines. To pause
in his person with my frame, encountering
only the hot faint edge of him,
past sand, far past root, past stone,
into the volcanic sacs with hands
like white grapes, paused at the ledge
of his demon neon, clutching a veiny wig,
from the center of that beautiful humanoid,
watching the owls of all and subtlest colors
digest.
Pause at this ledge, clutching white entrails,
cursing brother back in a womb, who comes
through so much delay to locate me,
sitting at luxurious table with legs crossed
like awful scissors, to pound the earth in its mercy
between ribs, to let him in through root, stone,
to pause at this ledge with his pulse in my hand
discovering the outerside of outside-ways.
To pause in his frame, with my person, an owl
overlooking our efforts from a fork
in married pines. To pause
in his person with my frame, encountering
only the hot faint edge of him,
past sand, far past root, past stone,
into the volcanic sacs with hands
like white grapes, paused at the ledge
of his demon neon, clutching a veiny wig,
from the center of that beautiful humanoid,
watching the owls of all and subtlest colors
digest.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
BLACK MAILBAG TUESDAY
You boil a lobster
as quickly as possible,
red & black miniskirt,
knife to its neck-hinge,
body-claws sunk
in the hard water,
legs lovely
as an ice-creamed
vanilla swirl.
You smile unsteady.
I'm going down to the subway
with a flamethrower.
Take the thick bands
from the largest pinchers;
melt the butter, let red & black
melt onto floor, pole-eyed dead
armor-clink onto plate.
I'm going down to the subway
with a trashbag full of band-aids.
You put your name into the machine.
The machine puts its name into you.
You remove your favorite shoes.
You will never remove this not-you
that is a section of the first & final you.
Step off the smaller weight-scale,
onto the runway larger.
This is as close as we can get a system
to collapsing outward into infinity.
I'm going down to the subway
with a grenade launcher
full of burnt red roses.
You put your not-life back into nature.
Nature puts its not-death into
you. You're alive & can't be.
I'm going down to the neon subway
in my grey-soaked underwear.
You pour the steaming water from silver
on the dry blossoms, and they expand
in the time it takes to give you a long
dragging kiss against the cutting board.
I'm going down to the subway station
with a laughing flame-thrower.
Time passing will never feel
this way again. Images will never hit
so soft & plain, but will hit harder.
The long wooden spoon
moves a sausage in butter; a bluejay
perches on a flowered sill beside
the channeling sink. I'm going down
to the subway with my bluest clothes on
grass-fire.
You boil a lobster
as quickly as possible,
red & black miniskirt,
knife to its neck-hinge,
body-claws sunk
in the hard water,
legs lovely
as an ice-creamed
vanilla swirl.
You smile unsteady.
I'm going down to the subway
with a flamethrower.
Take the thick bands
from the largest pinchers;
melt the butter, let red & black
melt onto floor, pole-eyed dead
armor-clink onto plate.
I'm going down to the subway
with a trashbag full of band-aids.
You put your name into the machine.
The machine puts its name into you.
You remove your favorite shoes.
You will never remove this not-you
that is a section of the first & final you.
Step off the smaller weight-scale,
onto the runway larger.
This is as close as we can get a system
to collapsing outward into infinity.
I'm going down to the subway
with a grenade launcher
full of burnt red roses.
You put your not-life back into nature.
Nature puts its not-death into
you. You're alive & can't be.
I'm going down to the neon subway
in my grey-soaked underwear.
You pour the steaming water from silver
on the dry blossoms, and they expand
in the time it takes to give you a long
dragging kiss against the cutting board.
I'm going down to the subway station
with a laughing flame-thrower.
Time passing will never feel
this way again. Images will never hit
so soft & plain, but will hit harder.
The long wooden spoon
moves a sausage in butter; a bluejay
perches on a flowered sill beside
the channeling sink. I'm going down
to the subway with my bluest clothes on
grass-fire.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
JUNA
That woman, she's in pain in her floppy
headscarf, she's carrying it for us all.
That woman I will know before my birth,
always staring at me through a bloody beak,
always waiting for a wordless answer
to come in words.
That poor mail-carrier. That output of harmless
weapons upon the world. Her perfect inability
to understand a single newspaper headline.
When younger she wore leather dresses,
swore constantly at the money-changers,
she wore a hemline far above her hemline
whenever she was young. Always
at the end of the night eyes
muffled in a hot washcloth, never
to stare again above the sink.
She changed form as an old butterfly;
she turned herself
into a far white solar system,
into a swallowed sextoy,
into a green wasp,
into an array
of imagined hells, into the sound
of ten thousand ants clamoring
in a yellow apple, and the saints uncaptured,
far behind the stainglass,
jellyfished on bare rock, using their suicide methods.
Oh, Juna, February will see
insaner you, left conversationless at last
for me, perched around the corner
from my bitter wine and bitterest coffee.
That woman, she's in pain in her floppy
headscarf, she's carrying it for us all.
That woman I will know before my birth,
always staring at me through a bloody beak,
always waiting for a wordless answer
to come in words.
That poor mail-carrier. That output of harmless
weapons upon the world. Her perfect inability
to understand a single newspaper headline.
When younger she wore leather dresses,
swore constantly at the money-changers,
she wore a hemline far above her hemline
whenever she was young. Always
at the end of the night eyes
muffled in a hot washcloth, never
to stare again above the sink.
She changed form as an old butterfly;
she turned herself
into a far white solar system,
into a swallowed sextoy,
into a green wasp,
into an array
of imagined hells, into the sound
of ten thousand ants clamoring
in a yellow apple, and the saints uncaptured,
far behind the stainglass,
jellyfished on bare rock, using their suicide methods.
Oh, Juna, February will see
insaner you, left conversationless at last
for me, perched around the corner
from my bitter wine and bitterest coffee.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
The wasp, the ocelot, and the elder go
as a group to communicate
with a far-off shadow continent.
The wasp is weighted low in the air
by the ocelot's fur; the elder
pets it raw and bald with his good hand,
holding the tithing platter in his crippled,
stood stiff on a laser-outlined sci-fi
platform on the watery hearth
of the brickless age.
His smile has the dubious fortitude
of day-old concrete. His hands
are the wings of birds
held together by wire.
as a group to communicate
with a far-off shadow continent.
The wasp is weighted low in the air
by the ocelot's fur; the elder
pets it raw and bald with his good hand,
holding the tithing platter in his crippled,
stood stiff on a laser-outlined sci-fi
platform on the watery hearth
of the brickless age.
His smile has the dubious fortitude
of day-old concrete. His hands
are the wings of birds
held together by wire.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
WALLS OF WIRE-LINKED BIRDS
And the security camera turns
into a tight circular rainbow.
My love walks out of the money machine
towards me with a toddler ostrich
in her tiny hand, her grip
on its wrung neck. Not our kill,
but it'll do for dinner. Later
the kitchen table vibrates
under its spirit leaving
through everyone's ribcages at once.
We look at its sleepy pretty eyelids,
slowly chew the stringy meat
from its thighs. The hills
from across the streets
come rippling over the ice cream shop,
then the small-town airport,
then the glassy escape
of our rugged living room.
We're tied by a thin chicken sinew
to the national currency and the clock.
When the wet string goes dry and snaps,
we fall through the open doorways
of the mental hospital, to be surrounded
by chalk pillars with fluorescent
sausage arms, crudely attached, the heads
lost somewhere near the functionless tops.
And the security camera turns
into a tight circular rainbow.
My love walks out of the money machine
towards me with a toddler ostrich
in her tiny hand, her grip
on its wrung neck. Not our kill,
but it'll do for dinner. Later
the kitchen table vibrates
under its spirit leaving
through everyone's ribcages at once.
We look at its sleepy pretty eyelids,
slowly chew the stringy meat
from its thighs. The hills
from across the streets
come rippling over the ice cream shop,
then the small-town airport,
then the glassy escape
of our rugged living room.
We're tied by a thin chicken sinew
to the national currency and the clock.
When the wet string goes dry and snaps,
we fall through the open doorways
of the mental hospital, to be surrounded
by chalk pillars with fluorescent
sausage arms, crudely attached, the heads
lost somewhere near the functionless tops.
Friday, November 06, 2009
On a path where rails were once torn up
we attacked each other with kisses
and pledged to lit streams of jet exhaust
never to abandon each other in the eye
of any storm. The grey rocks ran
with black water. Moss opened itself
to sponge the mouth, the trunks
whirled under all the blankets
of our seperate, similar memories.
Kids who jumped from sixty feet
to hit the water with their arches
sailed past insulting security guards
and we spidered under
a dim rugged ledge
to save each other from shivering.
Black moon arrived, but resembled
so closely the violet sun
that our bloodshot veined eyes
reached at the telephone trees
and the telephone branches.
Moths alit on lichens
where the water stopped
and sunlight dried
the landscape to match their wings.
We sang underneath all this;
we sang like a cave
with two deep mouths.
we attacked each other with kisses
and pledged to lit streams of jet exhaust
never to abandon each other in the eye
of any storm. The grey rocks ran
with black water. Moss opened itself
to sponge the mouth, the trunks
whirled under all the blankets
of our seperate, similar memories.
Kids who jumped from sixty feet
to hit the water with their arches
sailed past insulting security guards
and we spidered under
a dim rugged ledge
to save each other from shivering.
Black moon arrived, but resembled
so closely the violet sun
that our bloodshot veined eyes
reached at the telephone trees
and the telephone branches.
Moths alit on lichens
where the water stopped
and sunlight dried
the landscape to match their wings.
We sang underneath all this;
we sang like a cave
with two deep mouths.
Thursday, November 05, 2009
a frog belly landed
wet with urine
in my only hand
I felt on the edge
of a black hole
about to become destroyed information
I don't know why that afternoon
the frog's life was my own
held at an arm's length and growing closer
all other arms melted by throat-bubble
frog-voice, subtly desperate
my body breaking to bring the belly
towards throat, feeling stomach churning
in little body, now in awful sunlight I remember
wet with urine
in my only hand
I felt on the edge
of a black hole
about to become destroyed information
I don't know why that afternoon
the frog's life was my own
held at an arm's length and growing closer
all other arms melted by throat-bubble
frog-voice, subtly desperate
my body breaking to bring the belly
towards throat, feeling stomach churning
in little body, now in awful sunlight I remember
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
the winter is too powerful
turning leaves into destroyed tears
through the window you look upon
the suffering of your horrible
fellowcreatures
the lake breaks itself
in what a relief
in what a horrible breaking
loose, turning the silver screws,
pledging each other
to eternal distress on party porches
an animal becomes lion-like
in these awful jungletimes, hurt
by the first dagger, strung up
by the last robber who would dare
disrupt the propriety of the pink
totally digital temple,
several hundred navel
eruptions.
turning leaves into destroyed tears
through the window you look upon
the suffering of your horrible
fellowcreatures
the lake breaks itself
in what a relief
in what a horrible breaking
loose, turning the silver screws,
pledging each other
to eternal distress on party porches
an animal becomes lion-like
in these awful jungletimes, hurt
by the first dagger, strung up
by the last robber who would dare
disrupt the propriety of the pink
totally digital temple,
several hundred navel
eruptions.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
I have a snail on the tip of each finger
as I duck below the window
on the public library's 2nd floor.
Poisonous blue light pours over the sill
and I blink beneath it, under my increasing hat.
My fingertips grow numb, the snails start to move
toward the first knuckles, the windowsill melts,
I hide in the trashcan. I shiver and the shells
make music on the garbage-streaked walls.
Then a noise at the lid, and an alien
creature smiling: the smile the most alien
part of her, her eyeglasses built into her skin,
I offer her the snails and she gobbles them up
with bittersweet little sounds,
then I produce a thin goblet of red wine
made from the poison light distilled into
this small communication, turned purple.
as I duck below the window
on the public library's 2nd floor.
Poisonous blue light pours over the sill
and I blink beneath it, under my increasing hat.
My fingertips grow numb, the snails start to move
toward the first knuckles, the windowsill melts,
I hide in the trashcan. I shiver and the shells
make music on the garbage-streaked walls.
Then a noise at the lid, and an alien
creature smiling: the smile the most alien
part of her, her eyeglasses built into her skin,
I offer her the snails and she gobbles them up
with bittersweet little sounds,
then I produce a thin goblet of red wine
made from the poison light distilled into
this small communication, turned purple.
Monday, November 02, 2009
You took off your arms
and placed them on the table in front of me
you gave me a questioning look
with two glass eyes
you took off the wallpaper
and showed me the bugs crawling underneath
I watched helplessly
blinking my eyes in the rain of bright dust
from a frosted chandelier
I waited in the doorway watching myself
sitting in a chair by the table
looking hopefully at your stumps hoping
that another pair of arms was forthcoming
every bulb on the chandelier burst
like something worse than an accident
your glass eyes started to become wet
I hid under the table trying to open a violin case
my hands failing on the rusty clasp
You took off your glasses and sat
lightly in my heavy chair, I placed
my head in your lap, relieved to be back in the future
and placed them on the table in front of me
you gave me a questioning look
with two glass eyes
you took off the wallpaper
and showed me the bugs crawling underneath
I watched helplessly
blinking my eyes in the rain of bright dust
from a frosted chandelier
I waited in the doorway watching myself
sitting in a chair by the table
looking hopefully at your stumps hoping
that another pair of arms was forthcoming
every bulb on the chandelier burst
like something worse than an accident
your glass eyes started to become wet
I hid under the table trying to open a violin case
my hands failing on the rusty clasp
You took off your glasses and sat
lightly in my heavy chair, I placed
my head in your lap, relieved to be back in the future
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
I turned over in a bright
pink bed
the world did not
turn over anywhere
I robbed my sleep
the world did not sleep
or rob
but from itself
as if asleep
I moved a log
saw salamanders
I moved
the world did not move
I saw
little orange adorables moving
toward an awful hand
I hesitated to claim it as my own
the little orange bodies claimed
nothing
I followed
my hand remained aboveground
the rest joined
soft orange skin clamoring over
all our meek skeletons
pink bed
the world did not
turn over anywhere
I robbed my sleep
the world did not sleep
or rob
but from itself
as if asleep
I moved a log
saw salamanders
I moved
the world did not move
I saw
little orange adorables moving
toward an awful hand
I hesitated to claim it as my own
the little orange bodies claimed
nothing
I followed
my hand remained aboveground
the rest joined
soft orange skin clamoring over
all our meek skeletons
Monday, September 28, 2009
when we fuck, the bone spurs in my feet
melt back into the world, the back of my head
contacts the rim of the sky,
I am flying in an animal who knows my wings
when they unfurl and when they retract,
we are the same pair of shoulders, grinding
olives, our kneecaps morph back into baby
flesh, for the comma inside the instant,
when we fuck I know the street
will not take my body
melt back into the world, the back of my head
contacts the rim of the sky,
I am flying in an animal who knows my wings
when they unfurl and when they retract,
we are the same pair of shoulders, grinding
olives, our kneecaps morph back into baby
flesh, for the comma inside the instant,
when we fuck I know the street
will not take my body
Thursday, September 24, 2009
she who was a girl, opaque on a bicycle,
entranced by every language around her,
ran rubber down the the center
of Main Street's great wound,
occasionally brandishing her tongue
to attack a fleet of grey moths
under the yawn of a convenience store's
half-eaten electric light, bronze & blue
overlooking itself in the mirror
of a wet paved place, her tire
crawling up my left shin, over
knee-cap with a fleshy jump,
to stretch a bruise into my thigh,
stitch wishbone kisses
between my ribcages.
let her ride on her seat like a snail
who was a girl without my knowing,
who was a reach past every odorless moment
toward a force-field of fragrant gardens,
where broken television antennas lie still
beneath moving ferns in choirlike multitude.
entranced by every language around her,
ran rubber down the the center
of Main Street's great wound,
occasionally brandishing her tongue
to attack a fleet of grey moths
under the yawn of a convenience store's
half-eaten electric light, bronze & blue
overlooking itself in the mirror
of a wet paved place, her tire
crawling up my left shin, over
knee-cap with a fleshy jump,
to stretch a bruise into my thigh,
stitch wishbone kisses
between my ribcages.
let her ride on her seat like a snail
who was a girl without my knowing,
who was a reach past every odorless moment
toward a force-field of fragrant gardens,
where broken television antennas lie still
beneath moving ferns in choirlike multitude.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
your protected rapture uncolored
you come down feathery stairs
in a gown of feathers
making my afternoon
lime, mildly ridiculous.
smoothing your running blood
under a blonde skin
unhappy as a bird always is
wishing you apart, scattered
in petals, where on the moss ground
you can't speak against yourself any longer.
stained skin, eyes in velvet
wallpapering a wallpaper
with unnecessary tears
there is always murder
there are gifts in the world
to make you happy briefly
you'll die in the shade
while I'll die in the dead sun
you come down feathery stairs
in a gown of feathers
making my afternoon
lime, mildly ridiculous.
smoothing your running blood
under a blonde skin
unhappy as a bird always is
wishing you apart, scattered
in petals, where on the moss ground
you can't speak against yourself any longer.
stained skin, eyes in velvet
wallpapering a wallpaper
with unnecessary tears
there is always murder
there are gifts in the world
to make you happy briefly
you'll die in the shade
while I'll die in the dead sun
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
superluminal coupling
outside playground fence finally
struck against lunar skin
above factory blades while chains
dangled swingset over clay abyss
lips tinier than expected
tongue reluctant, hand moving
hipbone toward collarbone like a wish
stunned our old webs with droplets
stuck our new droplets with old webs
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
gap-people, aromas of awful thought,
surround, on bar-stools
in lugubrious multitude. Their kicks consist
of getting radiated with neon
cancers in three forms, their zippers all
pointing to the end.
these alien familiars, whom we all
know brightly, in a damp light.
These aunt-and-uncle robots.
All bars hold them. All illusions are swept
under their rugs, to stay in the house unseen,
laser criminals. Two red leaves in a pot
of green tea, swirling and swirling.
Two oysters in a melting ice-bucket.
Appearing to love each other
without any visible language.
surround, on bar-stools
in lugubrious multitude. Their kicks consist
of getting radiated with neon
cancers in three forms, their zippers all
pointing to the end.
these alien familiars, whom we all
know brightly, in a damp light.
These aunt-and-uncle robots.
All bars hold them. All illusions are swept
under their rugs, to stay in the house unseen,
laser criminals. Two red leaves in a pot
of green tea, swirling and swirling.
Two oysters in a melting ice-bucket.
Appearing to love each other
without any visible language.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
the holes in a certain tree
spoke
to the holes in my skin.
Where I was standing
no longer mattered.
The space I rent now
is built from the same holes
the same spaces breathing
through the emptiness between
my every
stand where you're standing.
Frustrate the earth with your song.
Our anti-matter makes fervent sex
where our matter won't.
Our dark matter love-fucks
where our bright matter can't.
the hole in every animal building
the holes in every other animal.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
We wait in draining offices
for the things we hate to help us,
thinking of rabbits on the library lawn,
thinking of anything anywhere.
We think of a world fit to protect
our many embraces. We think
of no world at all.
We hold hands within connected suits,
wondering who connected the suits.
Thinking of death, we hold monogamy
to be the standard. We think to hold
nothing, then to hold more and more
nothing, in swinging arms
toward familiar parking lots
swaggering in our damp mechanisms.
Hologram chimneys for real houses
with hologram fires. The sweat
on grandpa's face is less real
than the blood on his descendant's
palms, flickering in the fake twilight,
in the ersatz dawn. Only dusk is real;
the place where someone thought immortal
smacked their young head
on a younger parking meter is as real as the sun.
for the things we hate to help us,
thinking of rabbits on the library lawn,
thinking of anything anywhere.
We think of a world fit to protect
our many embraces. We think
of no world at all.
We hold hands within connected suits,
wondering who connected the suits.
Thinking of death, we hold monogamy
to be the standard. We think to hold
nothing, then to hold more and more
nothing, in swinging arms
toward familiar parking lots
swaggering in our damp mechanisms.
Hologram chimneys for real houses
with hologram fires. The sweat
on grandpa's face is less real
than the blood on his descendant's
palms, flickering in the fake twilight,
in the ersatz dawn. Only dusk is real;
the place where someone thought immortal
smacked their young head
on a younger parking meter is as real as the sun.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
the possibilities of real mental damage,
brought home by a third-storey evening
on a damp chair, sweating through one's guts,
clenching one's teeth at the screen
and the sound of a computer.
Skies will be dramatically torn open,
but nobody will escape.
Planets will pop like frozen balloons,
but nothing bold will use
the stunning force to found
an orchestra elsewhere.
We will bedroom together
more desperate and ape-like
than we ever imagined, in a sickly lull
between the great collapses,
clenching what remains of our tongues
between what remains of our teeth.
And now the damage will re-imagine
our mouths; we will kiss with molds
re-made by events of which we will never speak,
we ourselves being those events,
dousing cancers with white wine,
hot leprosies with darker red.
brought home by a third-storey evening
on a damp chair, sweating through one's guts,
clenching one's teeth at the screen
and the sound of a computer.
Skies will be dramatically torn open,
but nobody will escape.
Planets will pop like frozen balloons,
but nothing bold will use
the stunning force to found
an orchestra elsewhere.
We will bedroom together
more desperate and ape-like
than we ever imagined, in a sickly lull
between the great collapses,
clenching what remains of our tongues
between what remains of our teeth.
And now the damage will re-imagine
our mouths; we will kiss with molds
re-made by events of which we will never speak,
we ourselves being those events,
dousing cancers with white wine,
hot leprosies with darker red.
Monday, August 31, 2009
you're trapped in hot pink, the force-field
that you bought with the last
of your clothing. You thought
you'd like it here, but you keep
moving like a leaf while big eyes
touch you through a tiny jungle.
And we are the last to couple
in the moneyed world, where
people pay to wrap their own flesh around
their own sneezes, and a last breath.
If I'm the last skunk on our walk,
let me see a last pustule of star,
and extinguish, my tiny feet, my
short eyes, stepping weightless
off the scale, half-remembering.
The end atop depth, purple-black,
never descending.
that you bought with the last
of your clothing. You thought
you'd like it here, but you keep
moving like a leaf while big eyes
touch you through a tiny jungle.
And we are the last to couple
in the moneyed world, where
people pay to wrap their own flesh around
their own sneezes, and a last breath.
If I'm the last skunk on our walk,
let me see a last pustule of star,
and extinguish, my tiny feet, my
short eyes, stepping weightless
off the scale, half-remembering.
The end atop depth, purple-black,
never descending.
Friday, August 28, 2009
one hot azalea
flicks my helpless cheek
I don't want it to stop petalling
I don't want it to stop petalling
angular people with angular instruments
angling their way into soft things
while the soft people try to find each other
with the soft ribbons of themselves left
from the angular people's cuttings
drunk in the ashes of the morning
stunned by trash smells on a mattress
low in the high house, departing a white hive
for the sun, driving a pink shear into each thigh
to kill the curdling skin, ready for cleansed
teenagerhood with an adult-in-arms
emergency alcohols at hand,
gliding everything unrestrained
over the polished wood
toward the open mouth of the telephone.
Time shouldn't be like this. Money shouldn't interfere.
flicks my helpless cheek
I don't want it to stop petalling
I don't want it to stop petalling
angular people with angular instruments
angling their way into soft things
while the soft people try to find each other
with the soft ribbons of themselves left
from the angular people's cuttings
drunk in the ashes of the morning
stunned by trash smells on a mattress
low in the high house, departing a white hive
for the sun, driving a pink shear into each thigh
to kill the curdling skin, ready for cleansed
teenagerhood with an adult-in-arms
emergency alcohols at hand,
gliding everything unrestrained
over the polished wood
toward the open mouth of the telephone.
Time shouldn't be like this. Money shouldn't interfere.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
these momentary, wait, no, these lasting, somehow, ours,
the picnic table perched at the tip of the waterfall.
And now that nobody knows what to do,
the unsure have taken over the earth.
They might as well come over the horizon
with whatever weapons they want, and attack me
as I am impaled on a row of long pink spikes,
that I requested, that I had made, using
the movements of other creatures, which flow
from thumb-tips and those buds that taste sourness
at the end of the tongue. Come for me goodness,
come for me badness, come for me ecstasies
and doldrums, come to me all I possess
and all that I can never possess.
I dunno if the flock is fragmented or regimented;
I hope I never did and never will. My tongue-feet,
over the long pavements, tracing,
the mucus of theirs that I hope
to be acidic to all infrastructures,
where will they smear next? Good morning
murderers, good morning healers,
good morning to the shared paralyzation
in you both, as we help to eat this moment up entirely,
only to spit it up as grasses all over.
the picnic table perched at the tip of the waterfall.
And now that nobody knows what to do,
the unsure have taken over the earth.
They might as well come over the horizon
with whatever weapons they want, and attack me
as I am impaled on a row of long pink spikes,
that I requested, that I had made, using
the movements of other creatures, which flow
from thumb-tips and those buds that taste sourness
at the end of the tongue. Come for me goodness,
come for me badness, come for me ecstasies
and doldrums, come to me all I possess
and all that I can never possess.
I dunno if the flock is fragmented or regimented;
I hope I never did and never will. My tongue-feet,
over the long pavements, tracing,
the mucus of theirs that I hope
to be acidic to all infrastructures,
where will they smear next? Good morning
murderers, good morning healers,
good morning to the shared paralyzation
in you both, as we help to eat this moment up entirely,
only to spit it up as grasses all over.
Monday, August 17, 2009
smooth bodies under leaves breathing through a barn
wet garlic and dill scented whispering between boards
lips brushed in places by dry veins and stems
crying out:
reach me where I can't reach myself
run through vegetables brandishing bone-knife
stab layers heart seeds rawest material
cook me wherever I fall
wet garlic and dill scented whispering between boards
lips brushed in places by dry veins and stems
crying out:
reach me where I can't reach myself
run through vegetables brandishing bone-knife
stab layers heart seeds rawest material
cook me wherever I fall
Monday, August 10, 2009
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
the orange cat behind a white curtain,
purring on the sill, liquid-metal eyes,
white stripes reached, papery. Midori.
you are a yawning anarchist. The moon
speaks to you through a television.
the customers of the house have tried
to stop you from pissing on their beds;
you keep squatting there whenever
they leave you home
alone and waterbowled with a blaring radio.
Clawing my chest, snot-nuzzling, I see
we’re both insane, even more insane when
looking at each other. Lately I get jittery
in supermarkets, for want of fur; your agile hips
inhabit me toward automatic doors.
I want, I want, I want, to be a free creature,
but keep falling apart wherever
hands are to pick me callously up,
relying on a bigger sickness to prop me smartly
in the ampitheatre. Lately I don’t want
to be a kept creature;
I feel at home wherever machinery is falling.
purring on the sill, liquid-metal eyes,
white stripes reached, papery. Midori.
you are a yawning anarchist. The moon
speaks to you through a television.
the customers of the house have tried
to stop you from pissing on their beds;
you keep squatting there whenever
they leave you home
alone and waterbowled with a blaring radio.
Clawing my chest, snot-nuzzling, I see
we’re both insane, even more insane when
looking at each other. Lately I get jittery
in supermarkets, for want of fur; your agile hips
inhabit me toward automatic doors.
I want, I want, I want, to be a free creature,
but keep falling apart wherever
hands are to pick me callously up,
relying on a bigger sickness to prop me smartly
in the ampitheatre. Lately I don’t want
to be a kept creature;
I feel at home wherever machinery is falling.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
Carnivorous kisses under cumulous clouds,
porch restaurants, spilled premium tequilas
and your underwear stacked
high in the high chimneys on fire,
the black smoke from white cloth
smites your drunken lungs, you smooch
the underside of the table while the tennis courts
and their creature's cleats overturn the sod
So let me go, let me go, over countless
cemetery sidewalks, always toward
my bedroom stereo, and the light's
flourescent garb, and the speaker's arms
It fits with the drift of the lake
to let you fix my space heater
while I watch your legs
and all the swimmers in dust who get paid
for drifting around in hotel lobby rooms
with toolbelts on, leaving lunar footprints
on lavish rugs, the Persian patterns
taking over our hairlines as we whiskey-breathe
in front of the last TV
So let me go, let me go, through the old mailbox
into the old house, with its rugs of moss
and its forest entranceways, towards the cousins
of its old foundation, lichen-painted,
and meekly fall down all the old wells at once
And in the laughter of slaves, this last hour,
one detects a strange note of grandeur
as if the disease of these pigeons
pretty near our bare feet were a message
or a cure being sent for us
through planetarium skies
you take your haircut
towards the eyes of the dead, hoping
for a compliment to be carved
into the walls of your softest flesh.
Patio remembrances, forced dance-steps,
twilights on an endless loop to take you
to the same observance of an unobserved place
So let me go, just let me go,
to the tree-frog's suckerfeet like an alarm
attached to the trunks, and walk my last mile
in the smell of bundled meat, roaming radios
in black and white kitchens, to see myself
in a mansion's silver drain
porch restaurants, spilled premium tequilas
and your underwear stacked
high in the high chimneys on fire,
the black smoke from white cloth
smites your drunken lungs, you smooch
the underside of the table while the tennis courts
and their creature's cleats overturn the sod
So let me go, let me go, over countless
cemetery sidewalks, always toward
my bedroom stereo, and the light's
flourescent garb, and the speaker's arms
It fits with the drift of the lake
to let you fix my space heater
while I watch your legs
and all the swimmers in dust who get paid
for drifting around in hotel lobby rooms
with toolbelts on, leaving lunar footprints
on lavish rugs, the Persian patterns
taking over our hairlines as we whiskey-breathe
in front of the last TV
So let me go, let me go, through the old mailbox
into the old house, with its rugs of moss
and its forest entranceways, towards the cousins
of its old foundation, lichen-painted,
and meekly fall down all the old wells at once
And in the laughter of slaves, this last hour,
one detects a strange note of grandeur
as if the disease of these pigeons
pretty near our bare feet were a message
or a cure being sent for us
through planetarium skies
you take your haircut
towards the eyes of the dead, hoping
for a compliment to be carved
into the walls of your softest flesh.
Patio remembrances, forced dance-steps,
twilights on an endless loop to take you
to the same observance of an unobserved place
So let me go, just let me go,
to the tree-frog's suckerfeet like an alarm
attached to the trunks, and walk my last mile
in the smell of bundled meat, roaming radios
in black and white kitchens, to see myself
in a mansion's silver drain
Don't ask me, dearie. The black hole ghost,
to disturb a human.
When the world started to end, you were ashamed;
after a while he put two fingers up my ass,
the mechanics behind inflation are not yet
and even rodents and reptiles.
I wouldn't know about that. As I said, I'm just
up to hundreds of miles. Scientists have tracked
a time neighbour of theirs, flatwoods,
cypress swamps, and cabbage palm.
I turned my head and looked at him,
almost anything, even each other!
When galaxies and black holes were forming--
panther. Hopefully, we will succeed someday.
That's right, that little white house,
attempts to save Florida
at a high rate in the early universe.
As are its sharp, retractable claws.
He was concentrating so hard not to cum
rabbits, deer, and wild turkey.
Range seventy-five square miles. In New York City we
live in only 309 square miles. There on the corner, he
keeps spinning endless bubbles. These bubble universes...
when the eruption was new, it produced
two hundred square miles and adult females and
the one with the fig tree next to it. And yes,
for their home ranges, they will also inhabit pine;
I just told him to please please please feed my
woodlands. These habitats provide ample prey,
I saw it all. Not that I was watching -
the extinction of this beautiful creature will come from
large amounts of radiation. Over a time period,
watching their prey into pieces. Panthers will eat--
I believe in keeping myself to myself--
important to the panther for hunting,
but a body couldn't help noticing,
at a slower pace. The inflation then never ends,
first all the coming and going with him being ill,
refusing to answer the door when the maid, your manager,
then the weeping and wailing when he
possible because of the odd property that the material
fuck me in my ass, he pulled out of my pussy
will all have different energies and physical features,
died--of course I went to pay my respects,
their own home ranges that extend
of several million years, the radio signals...
to put this is perspective, the millions of people,
that's only right ,and I saw them carry the poor lamb
from habitat loss. There have been many.
They will also eat raccoons, armadillos,
faded as the electrons radiated away their energy,
hunting at night isn't a big problem. These animals,
and put the head of his cock at my ass.
But the bubbles retain the ability to continue their expansion
from the village, lay him out proper
with the blankets pulled up to your nose, crying,
and wall up the tomb. I did feel sorry
driving inflation decays, forming lower energy bubbles,
for the two girls, I must say.
Fully explained, and it may take a theory
leaving only the diffuse x-ray glow
to fully understand it. But it is nonetheless
the eruption's less energetic electrons
after cubs are grown, they adapt
he rubbed his cock over my ass and moved
a successful theory that is said to be one
still produce x-rays through interactions
along their ranges. On average, adult males range
all the juices from my pussy to my ass.
And attaching radiotelemetry devices. These devices
with the effusive photons left over from the Big Bang,
and it sent you into a panic. You lay in bed
he then slowly pushed the head of his dick up my ass,
it stops in one region and starts in another. This is...
these photos are more commonly known
of quantum mechanics and general relativity
and I fucking loved it. I pushed back on him making sure
of the best ideas in cosmology to come for a long time
as the cosmic background radiation.
The roaming of panthers by catching them
I had every bit of him in my ass. He didn't
especially hardwood hammocks. Sometimes panthers
when the less energetic electrons and photos
seek out native upland forests have to move,
I rocked back and forth. He was the hardest
this causes a never-ending expansion, which
from the cosmic background radiation collide,
for an entire day. You saw the president
crying and begging on TV I'd ever felt him,
all the time I was moving this fast
and vicious growth phase stops,
enough energy is created for the source to appear,
give off signals as the panthers travel naturally
he was playing with my clit, I had the biggest orgasm
shade, and cover. Many scientists believe that
in x-rays. This x-ray production allows the black hole
strong jaws, long teeth, and body I'd ever had,
it was bloody excellent. My partner suddenly, the panther
tears its unfortunate catch eruption to be detected
approximately 30 million years longer are excellent hunters.
They hide in bushes, was so turned on and excited
with my enthusiasm of yourself for weeping bitterly in your bedroom
he managed about 20 strokes before he came in my ass,
your assistant, and finally your parents begged you to come out
more slowly than it expands. So they may not all hold
the needed materials for life to form.
Even so, panthers have never been known.
to disturb a human.
When the world started to end, you were ashamed;
after a while he put two fingers up my ass,
the mechanics behind inflation are not yet
and even rodents and reptiles.
I wouldn't know about that. As I said, I'm just
up to hundreds of miles. Scientists have tracked
a time neighbour of theirs, flatwoods,
cypress swamps, and cabbage palm.
I turned my head and looked at him,
almost anything, even each other!
When galaxies and black holes were forming--
panther. Hopefully, we will succeed someday.
That's right, that little white house,
attempts to save Florida
at a high rate in the early universe.
As are its sharp, retractable claws.
He was concentrating so hard not to cum
rabbits, deer, and wild turkey.
Range seventy-five square miles. In New York City we
live in only 309 square miles. There on the corner, he
keeps spinning endless bubbles. These bubble universes...
when the eruption was new, it produced
two hundred square miles and adult females and
the one with the fig tree next to it. And yes,
for their home ranges, they will also inhabit pine;
I just told him to please please please feed my
woodlands. These habitats provide ample prey,
I saw it all. Not that I was watching -
the extinction of this beautiful creature will come from
large amounts of radiation. Over a time period,
watching their prey into pieces. Panthers will eat--
I believe in keeping myself to myself--
important to the panther for hunting,
but a body couldn't help noticing,
at a slower pace. The inflation then never ends,
first all the coming and going with him being ill,
refusing to answer the door when the maid, your manager,
then the weeping and wailing when he
possible because of the odd property that the material
fuck me in my ass, he pulled out of my pussy
will all have different energies and physical features,
died--of course I went to pay my respects,
their own home ranges that extend
of several million years, the radio signals...
to put this is perspective, the millions of people,
that's only right ,and I saw them carry the poor lamb
from habitat loss. There have been many.
They will also eat raccoons, armadillos,
faded as the electrons radiated away their energy,
hunting at night isn't a big problem. These animals,
and put the head of his cock at my ass.
But the bubbles retain the ability to continue their expansion
from the village, lay him out proper
with the blankets pulled up to your nose, crying,
and wall up the tomb. I did feel sorry
driving inflation decays, forming lower energy bubbles,
for the two girls, I must say.
Fully explained, and it may take a theory
leaving only the diffuse x-ray glow
to fully understand it. But it is nonetheless
the eruption's less energetic electrons
after cubs are grown, they adapt
he rubbed his cock over my ass and moved
a successful theory that is said to be one
still produce x-rays through interactions
along their ranges. On average, adult males range
all the juices from my pussy to my ass.
And attaching radiotelemetry devices. These devices
with the effusive photons left over from the Big Bang,
and it sent you into a panic. You lay in bed
he then slowly pushed the head of his dick up my ass,
it stops in one region and starts in another. This is...
these photos are more commonly known
of quantum mechanics and general relativity
and I fucking loved it. I pushed back on him making sure
of the best ideas in cosmology to come for a long time
as the cosmic background radiation.
The roaming of panthers by catching them
I had every bit of him in my ass. He didn't
especially hardwood hammocks. Sometimes panthers
when the less energetic electrons and photos
seek out native upland forests have to move,
I rocked back and forth. He was the hardest
this causes a never-ending expansion, which
from the cosmic background radiation collide,
for an entire day. You saw the president
crying and begging on TV I'd ever felt him,
all the time I was moving this fast
and vicious growth phase stops,
enough energy is created for the source to appear,
give off signals as the panthers travel naturally
he was playing with my clit, I had the biggest orgasm
shade, and cover. Many scientists believe that
in x-rays. This x-ray production allows the black hole
strong jaws, long teeth, and body I'd ever had,
it was bloody excellent. My partner suddenly, the panther
tears its unfortunate catch eruption to be detected
approximately 30 million years longer are excellent hunters.
They hide in bushes, was so turned on and excited
with my enthusiasm of yourself for weeping bitterly in your bedroom
he managed about 20 strokes before he came in my ass,
your assistant, and finally your parents begged you to come out
more slowly than it expands. So they may not all hold
the needed materials for life to form.
Even so, panthers have never been known.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
chickens pecking a wounded chicken to death
make my tin roof a rain of bloody echoes
all night
I drape your dirty panties over my face to soothe
the noise in my ears
the beaks the clawed feet
the sheets are pink with our bloody sweat
the feathers float past our stainedglass windows
(we stole one of our walls from an old church)
chickens squawk in manic ecstasy
seeing the death they are making amongst themselves
you take pills to avoid a nervous breakdown
and listen to the government on TV
lecturing us about money
using their prettiest new face to sell us
the noise on the roof, and the face under your dirty panties
to itself again
make my tin roof a rain of bloody echoes
all night
I drape your dirty panties over my face to soothe
the noise in my ears
the beaks the clawed feet
the sheets are pink with our bloody sweat
the feathers float past our stainedglass windows
(we stole one of our walls from an old church)
chickens squawk in manic ecstasy
seeing the death they are making amongst themselves
you take pills to avoid a nervous breakdown
and listen to the government on TV
lecturing us about money
using their prettiest new face to sell us
the noise on the roof, and the face under your dirty panties
to itself again
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Commonwealth Poems
1
place paper
on each grave:
and the nippled carvings
walking out of them
halfway
place paper on each grain
let the rattling
never begin
2
the left-handed world
leapt out of me
in a coffee accident:
I looked up & saw
2 scary girls
peering out of
the dark, their hands
like weird bread.
3
the cats play with what's left of me
after the notebook
has been torn, deep in my spine
with their allergenic claws
the sprinklers wait
on the ceiling to fling
cold rice on our whole
iron lives.
4
thrust skies
into a paw, part
the fur, touch the rough
hand-shaped
undergrowth of the last brains.
5
splay my offender
6
put his short throat on a long stick
7
those who ignore these blues
do so at their peril.
8
stuff cities
with rag people
rice paper
and old books
and older books
pseudo-mexican restaurants
ground floor level
fill with newspaper
and salt shakers
and old shoes
and older shoes
9
behold, I saw
columns of coral
carved from reef on reef
in the headlights
in the headlights
illumined, with no second sky
10
leda's pink icecones
call to me over the whole summer
come to me burning a wide season
through the strangely shaped years
come to me over the whole summer
in white dress making
hair look darker
in cemetery damp, dear
shoes dyed red
by fermented clay
in our twin canyons, leda
white
1
place paper
on each grave:
and the nippled carvings
walking out of them
halfway
place paper on each grain
let the rattling
never begin
2
the left-handed world
leapt out of me
in a coffee accident:
I looked up & saw
2 scary girls
peering out of
the dark, their hands
like weird bread.
3
the cats play with what's left of me
after the notebook
has been torn, deep in my spine
with their allergenic claws
the sprinklers wait
on the ceiling to fling
cold rice on our whole
iron lives.
4
thrust skies
into a paw, part
the fur, touch the rough
hand-shaped
undergrowth of the last brains.
5
splay my offender
6
put his short throat on a long stick
7
those who ignore these blues
do so at their peril.
8
stuff cities
with rag people
rice paper
and old books
and older books
pseudo-mexican restaurants
ground floor level
fill with newspaper
and salt shakers
and old shoes
and older shoes
9
behold, I saw
columns of coral
carved from reef on reef
in the headlights
in the headlights
illumined, with no second sky
10
leda's pink icecones
call to me over the whole summer
come to me burning a wide season
through the strangely shaped years
come to me over the whole summer
in white dress making
hair look darker
in cemetery damp, dear
shoes dyed red
by fermented clay
in our twin canyons, leda
white
Sunday, July 05, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
The Apartment on Metal Stilts, Near Some Rocks
You're jumping from a 58-foot waterfall naked,
your penis flapping in the wind,
the wind probably quite thankful for the interference
I'm drinking a bucket of blue housepaint
in order to make myself more interesting
I should be drinking rice milk
from a silver bucket instead
but the blue paint really makes me feel strong
I'm not writing this for the people of the future
they bore me already
I'm writing it for you and for
the idiot looking over my shoulder
there are thirty or so robots in the street
bending knives into almost harmless U-shapes
with their silver hands on silver and their arms squeaking
I've decided to go out into the street and spray grease on their joints
I haven't decided yet whether or not to ask them to attack you
with their moderate weapons
I'm going to make love to the mud of the river bed
and feel like a tiger
if you won't swim toward me
you've leaped enough times already
and the cold water isn't doing anything nice for your anatomy
if you won't buy me a bottle of pink champagne before midnight
I'm going to become your boss by accident and fire you
from a job that you'll never even have
You're jumping from a 58-foot waterfall naked,
your penis flapping in the wind,
the wind probably quite thankful for the interference
I'm drinking a bucket of blue housepaint
in order to make myself more interesting
I should be drinking rice milk
from a silver bucket instead
but the blue paint really makes me feel strong
I'm not writing this for the people of the future
they bore me already
I'm writing it for you and for
the idiot looking over my shoulder
there are thirty or so robots in the street
bending knives into almost harmless U-shapes
with their silver hands on silver and their arms squeaking
I've decided to go out into the street and spray grease on their joints
I haven't decided yet whether or not to ask them to attack you
with their moderate weapons
I'm going to make love to the mud of the river bed
and feel like a tiger
if you won't swim toward me
you've leaped enough times already
and the cold water isn't doing anything nice for your anatomy
if you won't buy me a bottle of pink champagne before midnight
I'm going to become your boss by accident and fire you
from a job that you'll never even have
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
THEY CALLED HER FLORENCE THE BENDER (song lyrics)
take all your money out
get whiskey for four
the siamese blonde loses half
drunk on the floor
weekends we switch beds
whisper different names
the river between us
don't flow for these games
third-floor jumping jacks
a thousand bodies at once
touch me through floorboards
rewind me of our stunts
there's no darkness when we all oblige
take all your money out
get whiskey for four
the siamese blonde loses half
drunk on the floor
weekends we switch beds
whisper different names
the river between us
don't flow for these games
third-floor jumping jacks
a thousand bodies at once
touch me through floorboards
rewind me of our stunts
there's no darkness when we all oblige
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
My lil' ladylove & I sat by the river with a friend today & I scrawled this like a song while she strummed a guitar & the dog dug a hole...
acne-eyed, bashful bodies move
under the concrete bridgework,
looking hard for a last egg to crack
on their master's stone mask
long cat tongues, come green-pink
out of the river's headstart
pricking the air, pricking the air
around the Japan of our pretty dog
and his ears, and his ears
pick up on, pick up on the river people
the river people moving the current so good wrong
with their long hands long
acne-eyed, bashful bodies move
under the concrete bridgework,
looking hard for a last egg to crack
on their master's stone mask
long cat tongues, come green-pink
out of the river's headstart
pricking the air, pricking the air
around the Japan of our pretty dog
and his ears, and his ears
pick up on, pick up on the river people
the river people moving the current so good wrong
with their long hands long
Sunday, May 24, 2009
To be breathed
air has first to go through you,
and we breathe it slowly,
as if to smudge the kittens
eating half the yard
without piano accompaniment,
without which we're so tired,
without which the fire and our mouths
are so tired and so damned, orange
and open early, lipsticked,
rabbit-suited, pathetic
in the morning light,
swung on wood from wood.
And the arms in the dry leaves
and the leaves under the arms like stars
should be in a harmlessness
of worlds, sorry for the bundled faggots
quickly broken down,
during the same four and a half a.m.
when I was perfectly
willing on a swing-set to kill
bad law enforcements for you
and your sexual counterparts,
burnt kitten
and protected kitten.
air has first to go through you,
and we breathe it slowly,
as if to smudge the kittens
eating half the yard
without piano accompaniment,
without which we're so tired,
without which the fire and our mouths
are so tired and so damned, orange
and open early, lipsticked,
rabbit-suited, pathetic
in the morning light,
swung on wood from wood.
And the arms in the dry leaves
and the leaves under the arms like stars
should be in a harmlessness
of worlds, sorry for the bundled faggots
quickly broken down,
during the same four and a half a.m.
when I was perfectly
willing on a swing-set to kill
bad law enforcements for you
and your sexual counterparts,
burnt kitten
and protected kitten.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
For those of you who don't know--most of you, probably--I am involved in a musical act called the Skeleton Leaves, comprised at times of myself and Olivia Kennett, at other times of myself and Steve Casey, and and other times of myself, Steve Casey and Olivia Kennett. And at times only of my own damned lonely self. These are the lyrics to two of the tracks I penned for our latest album, PAPERANGELSONFIRE.
DEAD BLUEJAYS IN SNOW
dead bluejays
in snow
under a telephone pole
coated in ice
black beaks
indecipherable eyes
hurting with taut velvet
holding a mica hatchet
in the hot rain glued
in place
of their frozen tears
on comicbooks and tar
under the sky-tarp
TO HEAL YOU FIRST
you're stunned,
you're stunned
mouth full of horsehair
and men's legs
and men's legs
you're stunned you're stunned
and your manner is an icepick
in a wedding cake
turn the lights off
in the banquet hall
little bird, little bird
wrapped in a nightgown
shoulderblades fluttering
to let me past your ghosts
DEAD BLUEJAYS IN SNOW
dead bluejays
in snow
under a telephone pole
coated in ice
black beaks
indecipherable eyes
hurting with taut velvet
holding a mica hatchet
in the hot rain glued
in place
of their frozen tears
on comicbooks and tar
under the sky-tarp
TO HEAL YOU FIRST
you're stunned,
you're stunned
mouth full of horsehair
and men's legs
and men's legs
you're stunned you're stunned
and your manner is an icepick
in a wedding cake
turn the lights off
in the banquet hall
little bird, little bird
wrapped in a nightgown
shoulderblades fluttering
to let me past your ghosts
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