Tuesday, December 28, 2010

I watch with all my pores
that man who holds neglected galaxies
in his haunches and eyesight
impart love to the laundromat
and the lobster buffet
from his scorched windowsill
with most of his eyes closed
breezes aimed long at the sail
attaches fangs soft as snail antennae
who needs the local neon to bloom
on his devastation, pink attics
wavering in basement clouds
eggs fresh on the walls he stares
out from a force-field of blue paint smoke
on the limbs of a clicking tree
when the genius submerged in sad days
hammers the streetlights into fireworks
and you wait with a hard-on in the path
of an even-tempered steamroller
dolls with bulging eyes cling to picket
fences on each green side
line up with your spine
a spaceship in gravy

chronologies wither from torched fuel
of unprecedented hours, leaving wall calendars
bare as pure salt

ruthlessly you penetrate
the elastic, daring the endless to end,
taunting universal slingshots
to send you past all freezing peers
hoping someone will kiss your faint zones
the way forward, where insight emerged
from world airport blackout

Thursday, December 23, 2010

in the last days of the fishermen
I'll take you by force to the froth of the tides
there will be a new kind of light in the sky
replica seagulls calling in a narrow canyon
waiting rooms of styrofoam filled
with coffee & cream lights, the barber's chair
tilted against a melting brick wall

in the last days of the fishermen
rain will be collecting in gleaming new plastics
our little dog will cry out on a chunk
of drifting lawn, oil will spurt
from the new earth in all the places
where it has not been wounded

and a chicken will croak
from the crest of a mailbox:
you have eaten your life by hours
you have watched it blend into the faint windowshades
railing with fists in rags
on the last days of the fishermen.
cloud ropes tied your wrists
to a fence long as neighborhood,
jittering under the ghost of pterodactyl

kissing the tied wrists of another,
you put on black lump lipstick
with a bruised palm, waiting for lawnmower
to clear shaded terrain
for blades of orgasm

panting under the icicles extended
from the dangle of a weeping willow
skipping seasons to be near
the brown velvet bondage
of certain dopplegangers
swearing he hates this world
and every cell in it, he half collapses
in front of a woodpile, fingertips
coated with gelatin kerosene,
she drags his twice her size away
by fraying shoes from white cigarette lighters
sinking in black mud

the cool of her blaze is kept
under pink silk
sex pyjamas, old rope clotheslines
keep copies of the same, flapping
in a breeze from ancient childhoods

Friday, December 17, 2010

175 MARLBORO ST

whole days with Greg on the porch jutting from all seasons
of the attic, lungs and guts
filled with the songs of terrible birds

fuck perfection, myth, and all
those many other things we don't need
that float constantly around us

younger in spirit each day
feeling both brilliant & stupid
as the town clock falls from the local sky
and crashes through the laundromat,

whole chains in mid-air above monotone autos
flowering neon yellow
pressing through the dark matter of every month

discoursing on the pleasures, watching the luckiest
animals go by, girls swapping precious objects
from pocket to pocket, staggering past the pancake breakfast
for men with thick frozen eyes,
fishscales buried in the lacework of the ceilings,

gold stains on the belly of the ship's floor,
house wagging its 3 stories

until the police fall screaming out of their helicopters,
colors fall short
buds clench and fail
in hard white
circles of spreading light.

Friday, December 10, 2010

lacework of naked trees
open in patches upon the harbor poles
staring with a battery in each hand
eyes aflame with nuclear day

two pigeons harass each other
on a block of stone:
the laser strung between foreheads,
statues blind in living rain
subway mouths with hot cartoon breath
urinals open to the pulsing world,

if there is a peace it settles only
in the belly of a large savage thing,
black branches sunlit-hinted grey
stacks of cubed human mind
up to the belly of the full moon