Monday, March 13, 2017

Untitled

This will be written on the body. Our body, surrounded by spirits and wind, long in voice and happy in mountain air. This bending form is always from now on, but also yesterday. Our arms the desert, our legs the jungle trees, our breath the urging wind. All the spaces between us, charged with electricity and rain. For this is the pause after the outbreath, after the poem, and whatever you there is, and whatever me there is, drift away, return, drift again. The way is to churn and bumble, say the silence, and begin.

Wednesday, March 08, 2017

Because I Never Stop

My own black heart is yours, because of the break in protocol. I saw that green line down the middle of your face, and your wide dark earrings. You handed me a knife, smiling, and I gathered up my grins. I took them long, into the aisles of this grey dog winter. You let me find my own big hero, someone who could hold me when I needed to cry out the anti-kiss. Now my broken feet are stronger than ever, running alongside that old carriage, over mounds and cornices. The mix of dust and sweat kicks up busted windows. You watch me trip. I’m all in you.

Wednesday, March 01, 2017

How Do I Stop?

Yes To The Window


Break the heart. Break the head. Break the room. Toy up the thought: no one will come home again. Burn the ballands, in lone moments, your eyes packed with tumbled fears. This is the avalanche of lifetimes. Your hands so plush with loss your neck could snap, a dried reed in a summer breeze. Yes to the window that opens to grey and thunder.

Friday, February 24, 2017

A Thicket

Danger Decides

Thursday, February 23, 2017

Attachments

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

The Week Of Inter-Species Biting

Fist their kid bit our kid. Then our kid bit the dog and the dog bit him back. Then (how to say this?) the couch bit the steak I was trying to cook. That had us biting each other and the halls between the bedrooms. When the dog started biting the TV, we both (simultaneously) ran for our passports at the backs of our desk drawers and bit them to shreds. We tried to cry about it, but the week was long, and there was still so much biting left to do. My teeth burn if I’m not sinking them into plaster, or a camera, or your cheek. Even now. Don’t come near me. I’m running at you. 

Almost Ready Now

Monday, January 09, 2017

A Dissipating Mist


I suppose there is at least one way to kill a song. It involves making the cat the practical matter in the downed tree. The trunk goes away with the mess and I tear something off, like the fragment of a wish. Then a colloid of ghosts holds the handle and I clean the bottom of the world. It means and rankles. It has to be this way, but something isn't right: the way the building storm takes to the fields and dances. The stranger thing is when I have my way with a song, it becomes something I think on, but it emerges from waking life as skinned and shuddering. Another tilted house. Not dead at all, I expect, but certainly beyond me.

Thursday, December 29, 2016

Another Going

Then flail, or break with false standards, ever going, and wall up in your tree for the rite. In this lasting final spring, a year is only time to watch shields flare, the forge drop, and the crows. Determine your rate of loss and slide through endless rooms of plastic yellow pails: all the forgotten ones from beach days with the kids. So many little worlds give up sun and dance, as recompense for all the meals we had to miss. My hands would hold you if you could be a torch at the dawn of this ending. I want the curled cradle of your legs under me, to tarry while the earth stops.

Sunday, December 25, 2016

How The Torrent Moves The Plan

What, then, is this world, slippery thing, made for trying, or just here? I am here as you are, unsung crowds of shuddering lovers and night redactions. When I step to the door, an old man steps inside me, wagging a finger at the encroaching cosmos, like he could direct it. Then the boy I always wish for shakes free from the squall, and I tumble out of legacy into bright new sweat. Always is always a word of last resort. I don't need it now, but I might when the blue O of my scared mouth finally finds the tune of your breast. As if your lungs gave only gold. We dawn in each other the way the river ripples in the risen light: always the same, never the same, always falling.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Upon Thinking

To write. Or, to writhe. The shell is human, but the meta-factual is even money now. While transcription is a heartfelt thing.