autumn makes success and failure
look like what they always were, that is,
moments on the line of time, nothing more,
each holding its overfullness of good and bad--
it casts time out like seed in the hand,
like broken shells marking tide-lines at the shore,
life-full and empty both, the twist
of things that can be felt and seen, their core
aspects as blind and hidden as a lintel-less door.
the lie of spring and summer, that what's known fits
with what is seen and touched, is over,
and autumn comes in private, its touch no grander
than one's own unknowable touch, no surer
than one's own face when looked at in the mirror.
resonance
i don't need a voice to sing, because singing is the thing that grows when nothing else can. you and i know it; we all know it--you strip everything to make a song. you strip the things that make you to dust and bone and heat, and in that desert your song grows and grows. so that the wave of the sound is never a repetition, a dulled oscillation, but rather a force larger than the space and time it moves in.
veronica
meditations of a monster:
my policy is always to say what i don't mean. never to hold conversation accountable for truth. because truth isn't easily expressed, and spoken words are in their nature too easy. i like to be around inside them like a dancer inside her streamer. i like to hold them out in front
like a cloth pressed to a face
so that i can rage into them and people still hear laughter. and cut into them but people feel caressed. as long as your intentions are pure it is easy to decieve people
like a cloth pressed to a face
because people instinctively know what can harm them, but everything else flows by easily as time. and the skin peels down so soft, so fine
like a cloth pressed to a face
easy like a loose-rind tangerine. as if i were straining a ricotta.
my policy is always to say what i don't mean. never to hold conversation accountable for truth. because truth isn't easily expressed, and spoken words are in their nature too easy. i like to be around inside them like a dancer inside her streamer. i like to hold them out in front
like a cloth pressed to a face
so that i can rage into them and people still hear laughter. and cut into them but people feel caressed. as long as your intentions are pure it is easy to decieve people
like a cloth pressed to a face
because people instinctively know what can harm them, but everything else flows by easily as time. and the skin peels down so soft, so fine
like a cloth pressed to a face
easy like a loose-rind tangerine. as if i were straining a ricotta.
zinc metaphor
some would call it relentless whining, but i choose to think of it as recycling, what i do here on restless mouth. the topics i examine over and over with the staleness of fixation, reteaching myself to hold onto my first love, to rechronicle and rerechronicle pain black as a prepubescent's ballpoint ink, and in the simplest of all possible terms--colors, things that don't hang together, conceits resembling badly-jointed furniture.
and i read ginsberg's chronicles of his everyday, his autoerotic travels and his visions, and so much joy, so much incisive, every line scissor-cut with love, accepting himself as--hell, striving to be--outside the grid, and he writes with joy he doesn't understand.
but i'm passing, and it matters to me--matters that i don't make my difference a thing of uncomfort for anyone else, matters that i keep it as private as a sore in a lightless place. and so i prowl around behind words, throwing the same ones at the same subjects. i write with words i don't understand, though, and subjects i don't understand. and i never understand them any better.
i just
throw farther.
and i read ginsberg's chronicles of his everyday, his autoerotic travels and his visions, and so much joy, so much incisive, every line scissor-cut with love, accepting himself as--hell, striving to be--outside the grid, and he writes with joy he doesn't understand.
but i'm passing, and it matters to me--matters that i don't make my difference a thing of uncomfort for anyone else, matters that i keep it as private as a sore in a lightless place. and so i prowl around behind words, throwing the same ones at the same subjects. i write with words i don't understand, though, and subjects i don't understand. and i never understand them any better.
i just
throw farther.
i wept in a dream: nocturne
for e m...
don't ask you to
heal me--don't want
to scar you nor
claim too much nor
ask for other than what i
really would like--just
want to
do you.
no lies and
no offers i
could make
without keeping
nothing about
the obviousness
of your beauty...
opportunity, feeling
like a red horizon
grander even
than the flush
to the forehead
opportunity what's between us
maybe
would call it
something better
but no good
with words.
don't ask you to
heal me--don't want
to scar you nor
claim too much nor
ask for other than what i
really would like--just
want to
do you.
no lies and
no offers i
could make
without keeping
nothing about
the obviousness
of your beauty...
opportunity, feeling
like a red horizon
grander even
than the flush
to the forehead
opportunity what's between us
maybe
would call it
something better
but no good
with words.
milton: nocturne
for e m...
i feel something different.
as if i were quivering
on the cusp
of a new world.
don't want to say much, though--
it's hard to say anything with any freshness anyway.
i mean, for example,
your eyes are like
flowers
your mouth like
a flower
your hair
flower-like
your face
fair as a flower.
because flowers
are the most beautiful things in the world,
i guess,
or at any rate they will withstand
comparison
to you
if only barely.
i feel something different.
as if i were quivering
on the cusp
of a new world.
don't want to say much, though--
it's hard to say anything with any freshness anyway.
i mean, for example,
your eyes are like
flowers
your mouth like
a flower
your hair
flower-like
your face
fair as a flower.
because flowers
are the most beautiful things in the world,
i guess,
or at any rate they will withstand
comparison
to you
if only barely.
quietus: nocturne
for e m
want to be
the bitch at your feet.
want for some amount of time
to be some one single thing,
univalent,
uniplicitous,
your
spaniel
this may not
be
normal
want to be
the bitch at your feet.
want for some amount of time
to be some one single thing,
univalent,
uniplicitous,
your
spaniel
this may not
be
normal
meditations of the beast: nocturne
for e.m.
exhaustion sets in like
a hot wind
weaving through
the petals of
a rose head
a sweet exhaustion, not
the metaphysics
of what
but
the delicate threading
of a hot wind a
languid definition
just
after
i thought of you
and reached inside
exhaustion sets in like
a hot wind
weaving through
the petals of
a rose head
a sweet exhaustion, not
the metaphysics
of what
but
the delicate threading
of a hot wind a
languid definition
just
after
i thought of you
and reached inside
new monster: nocturne
your mouth on mine like
a world i wanted
to hang inside the fire
of it
and then when
it was over
did you see the blind
white seeking on
my face? as if you'd
flipped a rock
and something
half-formed
couched
in dirt
looked back
disoriented and only
half- planned
as
breathless
wondering
icarus...
when i was alone
longing
stained me
stained me like
fresh red stains
a horizon
the light fall
of a
feather
presage
to the plummet
limbs tangling
the air in the mouth
tasting of a speeding world
plunging
into velvet oblivion
a world i wanted
to hang inside the fire
of it
and then when
it was over
did you see the blind
white seeking on
my face? as if you'd
flipped a rock
and something
half-formed
couched
in dirt
looked back
disoriented and only
half- planned
as
breathless
wondering
icarus...
when i was alone
longing
stained me
stained me like
fresh red stains
a horizon
the light fall
of a
feather
presage
to the plummet
limbs tangling
the air in the mouth
tasting of a speeding world
plunging
into velvet oblivion
raucous freshness: nocturne
i feel
the heat tangling stretching strangling
in your presence as if from out
the mouth
the rose
burst
red
dark
smooth
nothing left for
tonight but bask
in remembrance
girl-lady
lover i want
broken as a line of teeth
broken from the jaw and throat
but its impetus whole
as the seed
as the clinging vine
as the sweet root
ripped half by half
from the vocal fold
but the push of the sound
as made
as a whole
world
the heat tangling stretching strangling
in your presence as if from out
the mouth
the rose
burst
red
dark
smooth
nothing left for
tonight but bask
in remembrance
girl-lady
lover i want
broken as a line of teeth
broken from the jaw and throat
but its impetus whole
as the seed
as the clinging vine
as the sweet root
ripped half by half
from the vocal fold
but the push of the sound
as made
as a whole
world
dearest: nocturne
for e m
after many days adrift on the shifting ocean of my mind,
sun and moon beating careless down on my bare head,
i washed, salt-parched, to shore, and for a minute
gave over to thanks for that at least, before
opening lids on what i'd landed on:
a white beach in the shadow of a cliff
and v'd into its stone a grotto
where fresh water seemed to trickle
for there were green things all come up inside,
the ground green-packed, and lichenous walls
breathing sweet and wet. stumbling i crossed
from white to green, finding the space
larger than what i'd thought--a small world
resting in the crook of the stone.
i went further in, treading softly on moss
spangled with tiny star-white flowers, ferns
brushing my upper thighs, vines my shoulderblades,
and saw a pool there, reflecting sky, at which i knelt
to taste.
it was fresh and clear, saltless, rock-sweet.
my thirst had been bitter--i felt
every cell expand, grow sleek with water--i drank
and drank, almost laughing, wet along
every line of parched gums, every crevice of teeth,
against tongue and within throat and all through me.
afterward, crouching back, i looked up
and found the goddess of the place:
a statue, made from white marble, yes, but streaked
every lovely color--gray and blue, and at its base
the gray-green barklike lichens bloomed.
its lines slender and pure, the figure of a woman.
i do not know how to give her thanks, so
for days i have been just staring at her, just being near.
but the stars at night are giant and clear, here;
wrapped in their shadows, with my back to the cliff,
and the echoing waves sounding far far away,
i am capable
of rest.
after many days adrift on the shifting ocean of my mind,
sun and moon beating careless down on my bare head,
i washed, salt-parched, to shore, and for a minute
gave over to thanks for that at least, before
opening lids on what i'd landed on:
a white beach in the shadow of a cliff
and v'd into its stone a grotto
where fresh water seemed to trickle
for there were green things all come up inside,
the ground green-packed, and lichenous walls
breathing sweet and wet. stumbling i crossed
from white to green, finding the space
larger than what i'd thought--a small world
resting in the crook of the stone.
i went further in, treading softly on moss
spangled with tiny star-white flowers, ferns
brushing my upper thighs, vines my shoulderblades,
and saw a pool there, reflecting sky, at which i knelt
to taste.
it was fresh and clear, saltless, rock-sweet.
my thirst had been bitter--i felt
every cell expand, grow sleek with water--i drank
and drank, almost laughing, wet along
every line of parched gums, every crevice of teeth,
against tongue and within throat and all through me.
afterward, crouching back, i looked up
and found the goddess of the place:
a statue, made from white marble, yes, but streaked
every lovely color--gray and blue, and at its base
the gray-green barklike lichens bloomed.
its lines slender and pure, the figure of a woman.
i do not know how to give her thanks, so
for days i have been just staring at her, just being near.
but the stars at night are giant and clear, here;
wrapped in their shadows, with my back to the cliff,
and the echoing waves sounding far far away,
i am capable
of rest.
roses
masks
the image is of
a stone smeared
across my face
like a crust.
stone, stone,
you crack
in an arctic cold.
the world pouring out
from the hollows
in the hands.
the arms suspended
as if in air thick
as water.
re-pleat. please.
fold. fold.
stone, stone,
you crack
in an arctic cold.
the image is of
a stone smeared
across my face
like a crust.
stone, stone,
you crack
in an arctic cold.
the world pouring out
from the hollows
in the hands.
the arms suspended
as if in air thick
as water.
re-pleat. please.
fold. fold.
stone, stone,
you crack
in an arctic cold.
resonance
masks
the image is
a cut of
orange-red
silk
swathed
close across
my face
as if it
had welled there
covered
all the sense-holes
with
tight-drawn
red-gold
deep in its surface
is etched
your name--
breathed out
it's love
breathed in
it's pain
the image is
a cut of
orange-red
silk
swathed
close across
my face
as if it
had welled there
covered
all the sense-holes
with
tight-drawn
red-gold
deep in its surface
is etched
your name--
breathed out
it's love
breathed in
it's pain
ich grolle nicht
masks
the image is reattached to its meaning, but not wholly, with a certain blank field between itself and its expression. the blank field is that of jointure, the act of jointure and the exhaustion of its delay.
hence meaning fires into blankness, and the image, tethered rather tenuously, seems to float
like the wild head of a poppy on its spiderlike stem.
the image
floats
on blankness
lifeless, unviable
as a mask tethered to a face.
if the sky
that we look upon
should crumble and fall
or the mountains
tumble
to the sea
no i won't
i won't cry
no i won't
shed a tear
just as long
as you stand
stand by me
stand by me
stand by me
stand by me
stand by me
the image is reattached to its meaning, but not wholly, with a certain blank field between itself and its expression. the blank field is that of jointure, the act of jointure and the exhaustion of its delay.
hence meaning fires into blankness, and the image, tethered rather tenuously, seems to float
like the wild head of a poppy on its spiderlike stem.
the image
floats
on blankness
lifeless, unviable
as a mask tethered to a face.
if the sky
that we look upon
should crumble and fall
or the mountains
tumble
to the sea
no i won't
i won't cry
no i won't
shed a tear
just as long
as you stand
stand by me
stand by me
stand by me
stand by me
stand by me
veronica
masks
the image is of
love
huge, hard
as a thick stream
of milk
pouring
like niagra falls
over a threadbare will
love comes
torrentially.
there was the red
and the black
veronica
i reached into that core of dark
and said your name.
the image is of
love
huge, hard
as a thick stream
of milk
pouring
like niagra falls
over a threadbare will
love comes
torrentially.
there was the red
and the black
veronica
i reached into that core of dark
and said your name.
zinc metaphor
masks:
if the sky that we look upon
should crumble and fall
and the mountains tumble to the sea
the image is of
the fact that
i once loved
you.
i won't be afraid, no, i won't shed a tear
just as long as you stand by me
that
just once
to have loved
to just once
have tumbled
into that ocean
of juice
from its cliff
of pearl
broken
swollen
on its
taut tide
to have
masked
desire
with your
name
darling, darling, darling
stand by me.
if the sky that we look upon
should crumble and fall
and the mountains tumble to the sea
the image is of
the fact that
i once loved
you.
i won't be afraid, no, i won't shed a tear
just as long as you stand by me
that
just once
to have loved
to just once
have tumbled
into that ocean
of juice
from its cliff
of pearl
broken
swollen
on its
taut tide
to have
masked
desire
with your
name
darling, darling, darling
stand by me.
i wept in a dream
masks
the image is that
i wept in a dream, lover,
that you were there and not there.
but the truth is,
i mourned you while awake.
i mourned that i had never loved you.
that mask was made
of mother-of-pearl. it changed
in every light until one was bright enough
to heat it
to a shattering point.
a maskless clarity.
i looked at the shards
that filled my hands
and said your name.
the image is that
i wept in a dream, lover,
that you were there and not there.
but the truth is,
i mourned you while awake.
i mourned that i had never loved you.
that mask was made
of mother-of-pearl. it changed
in every light until one was bright enough
to heat it
to a shattering point.
a maskless clarity.
i looked at the shards
that filled my hands
and said your name.
milton
the image is
that which will have to pass
for the thing itself.
because i have nothing of yours
but an old shirt,
and there never was anything
ours.
your existence
so far outside of me
you might as well
have been a star
lover
only your shadow
only your shadow
brushing the ground
i pressed my mouth into.
there is blood flooding the stairs of the tower. the tower is myself, citadel. the tower is a prison. the tower is my body. lips and eyes, hands and hair, the tower is built of longing, the tower is built of the resistance to change, the tower breathes in and out and its language breathes with it, slow strides of breath, breath to feed the fire.
the mask is
that this makes
some sort
of difference.
that which will have to pass
for the thing itself.
because i have nothing of yours
but an old shirt,
and there never was anything
ours.
your existence
so far outside of me
you might as well
have been a star
lover
only your shadow
only your shadow
brushing the ground
i pressed my mouth into.
there is blood flooding the stairs of the tower. the tower is myself, citadel. the tower is a prison. the tower is my body. lips and eyes, hands and hair, the tower is built of longing, the tower is built of the resistance to change, the tower breathes in and out and its language breathes with it, slow strides of breath, breath to feed the fire.
the mask is
that this makes
some sort
of difference.
quietus
the mask is
that the image is.
i fend off the moment
in which to let you go
you and your shirt,
your shadow, its taste,
your smile,
your voice,
and that feeling
that sunlight
meant something
when i was near you.
lover, i search your coin
out
amidst the eternal cushions
of the couch.
that the image is.
i fend off the moment
in which to let you go
you and your shirt,
your shadow, its taste,
your smile,
your voice,
and that feeling
that sunlight
meant something
when i was near you.
lover, i search your coin
out
amidst the eternal cushions
of the couch.
meditations of the beast
the glass shattered
down to the very bed of it,
the lintel of the window,
jagged with light,
and i turned and saw you there
veronica
but it was a dream
you were a pass of cloth
you were an image
you made only an impression.
masks:
looking back on what i've lost,
i wrap my arms in white linen--i am
marked with mourning,
marked dawn's,
something
as easily marked
as white linen
something so
shattered
shattered
to its very frame...
something
ready to build
in the empty lintel
left by your name.
down to the very bed of it,
the lintel of the window,
jagged with light,
and i turned and saw you there
veronica
but it was a dream
you were a pass of cloth
you were an image
you made only an impression.
masks:
looking back on what i've lost,
i wrap my arms in white linen--i am
marked with mourning,
marked dawn's,
something
as easily marked
as white linen
something so
shattered
shattered
to its very frame...
something
ready to build
in the empty lintel
left by your name.
new monster
time they say
is like
sand
each moment
an implied
equidistance
from the rest,
each with
its own
heart
burrowed inside
the thousand things
felt in
each
are all
available
at all
points
also those
imagined
space is lodged
inside
that heart
also
like a
pinecone
ready to
spill its
seed
at frost,
waiting to
decompress
the image is of
a dawn a lighter shade
of gray
and the earth too
a lighter gray
and
me giving thanks
for everything
for everything
i remember
the stutter collected
inside my tongue
is like
sand
each moment
an implied
equidistance
from the rest,
each with
its own
heart
burrowed inside
the thousand things
felt in
each
are all
available
at all
points
also those
imagined
space is lodged
inside
that heart
also
like a
pinecone
ready to
spill its
seed
at frost,
waiting to
decompress
the image is of
a dawn a lighter shade
of gray
and the earth too
a lighter gray
and
me giving thanks
for everything
for everything
i remember
the stutter collected
inside my tongue
raucous freshness
grace--
i live in grace.
it feels like tears
tears on a face.
tears of joy
or tears of pain
the feeling goes round
and round again.
and as it rounds
itself anew
the moment like
a centrifuge
spinning away
the imperfect
just
water
salt
against
the flesh
i give thanks
for this
deep
pause--
so much
larger
than its
cause
i live in grace.
it feels like tears
tears on a face.
tears of joy
or tears of pain
the feeling goes round
and round again.
and as it rounds
itself anew
the moment like
a centrifuge
spinning away
the imperfect
just
water
salt
against
the flesh
i give thanks
for this
deep
pause--
so much
larger
than its
cause
dearest
there is no such thing
as a beast with no burden.
this feeling that remains
like sand in the mouth of the oyster
of having cheated everything
to get near to you,
beloved, best-loved,
the one i loved,
defying everything
but words and actions--
with you in every way
but those of fact and fiction.
i dwelled within you secretly
and only because you had
so much to give me,
beloved, best-loved,
the richness of your hair,
the smell of you, the heavy softness.
you were like a phoenix
bursting on the horizon
limitlessly far away
and yet i came close enough
to brush the skin of your hands
with my fingers and call it
an accident
and your ankles
the music you listened to
just scraps
the smell of the knowledge
of things that surrounded you
it was more
than wanting
beloved
i had
an oblique harvest
of you--a harvest
of the things near you
(gathered the dust
of your star
on hands and knees
gathering dust
you formed
inside me
a precious jewel)
i saw the blue of your veins
like rivers
i felt the skin of your voice
on the air.
as a beast with no burden.
this feeling that remains
like sand in the mouth of the oyster
of having cheated everything
to get near to you,
beloved, best-loved,
the one i loved,
defying everything
but words and actions--
with you in every way
but those of fact and fiction.
i dwelled within you secretly
and only because you had
so much to give me,
beloved, best-loved,
the richness of your hair,
the smell of you, the heavy softness.
you were like a phoenix
bursting on the horizon
limitlessly far away
and yet i came close enough
to brush the skin of your hands
with my fingers and call it
an accident
and your ankles
the music you listened to
just scraps
the smell of the knowledge
of things that surrounded you
it was more
than wanting
beloved
i had
an oblique harvest
of you--a harvest
of the things near you
(gathered the dust
of your star
on hands and knees
gathering dust
you formed
inside me
a precious jewel)
i saw the blue of your veins
like rivers
i felt the skin of your voice
on the air.
roses
give thanks
for the sickness of it
(the words like
uneven piston)
the scrap
of mirror-glass
in my pocket
its fresh
points
i can clutch at
and feel razed there
feel kept
in the moment
feel
if nothing else
miraculous
inability
to free myself
in compulsive
blank
compulsive
blankness
for the sickness of it
(the words like
uneven piston)
the scrap
of mirror-glass
in my pocket
its fresh
points
i can clutch at
and feel razed there
feel kept
in the moment
feel
if nothing else
miraculous
inability
to free myself
in compulsive
blank
compulsive
blankness
resonance
parts that have been
writhing
under the ground
shoot green stems
flowers
comet-red with heat
burst open across the skin
petals rippling open
like an expanding flame
the texture of a scream
undulant like fire
across earth-pressed hills
i will take these blossoms
and make such a thing of them
a skin
like nuit's
an arc
deep as the sky
flowers like stars
burning
pricked
out
straight
from the heart
i will do such things
i know not yet what they are
earth and sky,
recover me
recover me
earth and sky,
recover me
(slack-jawed
with freshness
lips red
with force
the shattered
celestial fire
of the bloom)
writhing
under the ground
shoot green stems
flowers
comet-red with heat
burst open across the skin
petals rippling open
like an expanding flame
the texture of a scream
undulant like fire
across earth-pressed hills
i will take these blossoms
and make such a thing of them
a skin
like nuit's
an arc
deep as the sky
flowers like stars
burning
pricked
out
straight
from the heart
i will do such things
i know not yet what they are
earth and sky,
recover me
recover me
earth and sky,
recover me
(slack-jawed
with freshness
lips red
with force
the shattered
celestial fire
of the bloom)
ich grolle nicht
i have almost nothing.
not time, not anything, practically.
i have nothing but love.
love, and pain.
love, and hope.
and also the inside voices.
not even a poem.
just a collection of sentences.
and the inside
the inside voices.
(and love.)
watch the collection
drift through my fingers.
hey down a down
the inside voices
not time, not anything, practically.
i have nothing but love.
love, and pain.
love, and hope.
and also the inside voices.
not even a poem.
just a collection of sentences.
and the inside
the inside voices.
(and love.)
watch the collection
drift through my fingers.
hey down a down
the inside voices
veronica
one changes so much when there is so much to change.
these objects around me, the visually there, the touched--
things are nothing more than actions
slow enough in time
to be identified
as singular
the singularities
are so small
so small
bound a thousand years out from here and now,
up into brilliant white fire-marked space
and that dust becomes a face
and that dust becomes a face
cosmic and forceless
infinitely fine
your name a breath
your name a breath
in you all things reside
these objects around me, the visually there, the touched--
things are nothing more than actions
slow enough in time
to be identified
as singular
the singularities
are so small
so small
bound a thousand years out from here and now,
up into brilliant white fire-marked space
and that dust becomes a face
and that dust becomes a face
cosmic and forceless
infinitely fine
your name a breath
your name a breath
in you all things reside
zinc metaphor
rhododendrons are bright pink flowers
they are the cups of the morning.
rhododendrons are salmon pink and white
against a deep green leaf.
an unpleasantly fuzzy stem complements
the rhododendron, the cup of the morning.
even the dead leaves don't lose color.
they turn a caramel brown.
the zinc metaphor
spreads
over everything
they are the cups of the morning.
rhododendrons are salmon pink and white
against a deep green leaf.
an unpleasantly fuzzy stem complements
the rhododendron, the cup of the morning.
even the dead leaves don't lose color.
they turn a caramel brown.
the zinc metaphor
spreads
over everything
i wept in a dream
the delineation of an arc,
circus tent-like, of desire
for form, for shape,
for less things--for all-widening--
a singularity in the pole of the world.
i have done such things
i know not yet what they are.
actions trail behind womblike causes,
leaving white waxen tails like comets
when i closed my eyelids i saw them
burning there still,
spinning in depths
deeper than space.
control--infection--
the mechanics of a dream
i have done such things
i have done such things.
circus tent-like, of desire
for form, for shape,
for less things--for all-widening--
a singularity in the pole of the world.
i have done such things
i know not yet what they are.
actions trail behind womblike causes,
leaving white waxen tails like comets
when i closed my eyelids i saw them
burning there still,
spinning in depths
deeper than space.
control--infection--
the mechanics of a dream
i have done such things
i have done such things.
milton
the stomate of the rose
nodding against the stem
like a hand
against a wrist
twitching there
when i woke from a dream
i saw so little
the birds wandered the skies
the flowers barely budded out
nodding against the stem
like a hand
against a wrist
twitching there
when i woke from a dream
i saw so little
the birds wandered the skies
the flowers barely budded out
quietus
croesus of the golden horn
and page blossom from the silver book
the sound of sand scraped against itself
the crunch of a thin layer of sand imploding
and page blossom from the silver book
i have done such things
i have done such things
sweetheart do i know you anymore?
what have i done? do you know?
descent into ownership
the black and red grip of mastery
the press of lips and the grind of hips
i broke shallow against a lintel
i swept the pieces with my mind
with the mind that spilled from my head
with that page of blossom from the silver book
and page blossom from the silver book
the sound of sand scraped against itself
the crunch of a thin layer of sand imploding
and page blossom from the silver book
i have done such things
i have done such things
sweetheart do i know you anymore?
what have i done? do you know?
descent into ownership
the black and red grip of mastery
the press of lips and the grind of hips
i broke shallow against a lintel
i swept the pieces with my mind
with the mind that spilled from my head
with that page of blossom from the silver book
meditations of the beast
song
air air hold her hair
hold it there for me to stare
let me look at it in love
look at it from far above
look at it from near below
look at it from high and low
every love becomes my own
from the east to western zone
broken in the morning time
broken at the evening's line
hand in hand with golden youth
foraging the edge of truth
i will seek you everywhere
air air that held her hair
air air hold her hair
hold it there for me to stare
let me look at it in love
look at it from far above
look at it from near below
look at it from high and low
every love becomes my own
from the east to western zone
broken in the morning time
broken at the evening's line
hand in hand with golden youth
foraging the edge of truth
i will seek you everywhere
air air that held her hair
new monster
nude and vibrant silence
silence
spread round like sour milk's hot press
(locked, all doors locked down)
silence no longer the absence but rather apotheosis of sound, silence a feeling, lappable, a discretion of tastes, a fever
silence the gathering and the prophecy
(i will do such things, such things, such open-sound things)
(i cling to
your shirt as if
to the petals
the stamen
clings
fearful of
bareness)
silence
spread round like sour milk's hot press
(locked, all doors locked down)
silence no longer the absence but rather apotheosis of sound, silence a feeling, lappable, a discretion of tastes, a fever
silence the gathering and the prophecy
(i will do such things, such things, such open-sound things)
(i cling to
your shirt as if
to the petals
the stamen
clings
fearful of
bareness)
raucous freshness
and too, hands, eyes, words and names of things from out the concrete heart, each like lace, with holes in a pattern
(i stood on your porch and i smoked a cigarette. the sky was night. and it smelled like the lawn. a man in a jacket. there you were. and you remarked on a choice. above night circled. the eyes of my face circled in, falconlike. you you you
later a woman gave me a deck of tarot cards.
i was dizzy with you. and it was cigarettes near the lawn. a choice you made. later my heart beat with it. you you you you you)
my veronica, you stood apart, hanged in constellation like the lover of a god.
(i stood on your porch and i smoked a cigarette. the sky was night. and it smelled like the lawn. a man in a jacket. there you were. and you remarked on a choice. above night circled. the eyes of my face circled in, falconlike. you you you
later a woman gave me a deck of tarot cards.
i was dizzy with you. and it was cigarettes near the lawn. a choice you made. later my heart beat with it. you you you you you)
my veronica, you stood apart, hanged in constellation like the lover of a god.
dearest
light of love
lingering, glancing like sun off the water
scatter of luminescence
the palm of the hand
hitting the water
the water is permeable
wide with toothless mouths
a thousand floating wrists
a thousand limp hands
i will factor this in, dearest, in gratitude.
you put the light in my hands and
when i smack the water it's for you
for you my love loved one with
eyes like sunfire
for you my loved one for the one i love
lingering, glancing like sun off the water
scatter of luminescence
the palm of the hand
hitting the water
the water is permeable
wide with toothless mouths
a thousand floating wrists
a thousand limp hands
i will factor this in, dearest, in gratitude.
you put the light in my hands and
when i smack the water it's for you
for you my love loved one with
eyes like sunfire
for you my loved one for the one i love
roses
we were on the front porch and BLOOD the night was warm and the scent of the grass FLESH
i set my teeth against memory. memory is BLOOD nothing but a FLESH
veronica how i want you. it's childish to BLOOD
childish to FLESH
foolish to crave in words childish to BLOOD FLESH AND BLOOD
flesh, bone, and blood
hey down a down
flesh, bone and blood
hey down a down
i set my teeth against memory. memory is BLOOD nothing but a FLESH
veronica how i want you. it's childish to BLOOD
childish to FLESH
foolish to crave in words childish to BLOOD FLESH AND BLOOD
flesh, bone, and blood
hey down a down
flesh, bone and blood
hey down a down
resonance
kettle full of thorn diary chapter and verse:
the sweat on your hands like a sun disc
like a sun disc the rose in the fire
the rose in the fire like a deer in the wire
like a deer in the wire the femur the spire
the femur the spire like the house of the moon
who came to there came there too soon oh too soon
who came to there came there too soon oh too soon
mourn mother the moon mourn the shatter of beams
mourn those split unborn stars as if they were anything
the sweat on your hands like a sun disc
like a sun disc the rose in the fire
the rose in the fire like a deer in the wire
like a deer in the wire the femur the spire
the femur the spire like the house of the moon
who came to there came there too soon oh too soon
who came to there came there too soon oh too soon
mourn mother the moon mourn the shatter of beams
mourn those split unborn stars as if they were anything
ich grolle nicht
sway
of
sound
sound
straight through
still behind every cell i look for you
look for you behind every shadow of beating vein
within each fountain of the eye, within each whitecap teeth
i pound of sound
my love my love my love
it is a kettledrum
my love my love
it is a sleeve,
a hide hiding mountables
the soft sinkable things
the soft vulnerabilities
kettledrummed i resound
reresound beating beating out the tender vein
thick-knuckle down the fountain
the giant envelope of lovesong
a wave so deep i could curl up in
and ride filled, annihilate,
gone
. . .
of
sound
sound
straight through
still behind every cell i look for you
look for you behind every shadow of beating vein
within each fountain of the eye, within each whitecap teeth
i pound of sound
my love my love my love
it is a kettledrum
my love my love
it is a sleeve,
a hide hiding mountables
the soft sinkable things
the soft vulnerabilities
kettledrummed i resound
reresound beating beating out the tender vein
thick-knuckle down the fountain
the giant envelope of lovesong
a wave so deep i could curl up in
and ride filled, annihilate,
gone
. . .
veronica
i was cloth
woven
to catch
your face.
did you see
in me
that shape?
nothing else perhaps
no mirror
could give you
what i could any clearer.
all blinding
white, all gold,
all flowers
teeth-grit with
opening fold,
all spring
pushed out
as if it were summer
not
seasons' betrayal
but
to find
an owner.
i shudder
for a limit
and find
white only
and gold
all-flowering--
a god
that lonely would have
me heal, that
gives nothing away.
woven
to catch
your face.
did you see
in me
that shape?
nothing else perhaps
no mirror
could give you
what i could any clearer.
all blinding
white, all gold,
all flowers
teeth-grit with
opening fold,
all spring
pushed out
as if it were summer
not
seasons' betrayal
but
to find
an owner.
i shudder
for a limit
and find
white only
and gold
all-flowering--
a god
that lonely would have
me heal, that
gives nothing away.
zinc metaphor
it was a layer of zinc i acquired
willfuly
caked deep
down into the skin
until
i was a different me.
as if in every cell
this my sick white fought
with your fairy coin.
so that when i creamed
sound
it glinted lamp-gold--
that is,
a glittering expulsion.
posessed:
your
fist.
reposessed:
my dirt
is
zinc caked nail-thick,
zinc in the vein,
poison, yes,
poison.
sweet poison.
willfuly
caked deep
down into the skin
until
i was a different me.
as if in every cell
this my sick white fought
with your fairy coin.
so that when i creamed
sound
it glinted lamp-gold--
that is,
a glittering expulsion.
posessed:
your
fist.
reposessed:
my dirt
is
zinc caked nail-thick,
zinc in the vein,
poison, yes,
poison.
sweet poison.
i wept in a dream
drop, tears, down deep
through the caverns of my sleep
to the river underground
deep and dark past any sound
where the water ceaseless flows
without break, but undertow
dragging down to leave your trace
featureless at its deepest place
somewhere i'd tried to escape. had tried many times. my hands
shuddering, unable to hold
anything.
but it was a harvest, and i will tell you why:
at the bottom of the river, a door was available.
i had been waiting for a door forever.
it was a train that took me away from here
and a train will bring me home.
through the caverns of my sleep
to the river underground
deep and dark past any sound
where the water ceaseless flows
without break, but undertow
dragging down to leave your trace
featureless at its deepest place
somewhere i'd tried to escape. had tried many times. my hands
shuddering, unable to hold
anything.
but it was a harvest, and i will tell you why:
at the bottom of the river, a door was available.
i had been waiting for a door forever.
it was a train that took me away from here
and a train will bring me home.
milton
heartbeat a face
image from out the waves,
veronica
looks at me still
i imagine,
a star
in the sky, shining
like sun on the water
a million miles away.
i don't need to remember
what i can't forget, a feeling
lodged
so deep below
the surface
it turned the whole breadth of the fountain
to gold, to one gilt object,
as water piled upon water,
sweet blood washing the vein, red
with the breath
i drank
of your face.
so far away
it was a dream:
the chalice,
the tower through which
the blood trails
like a white sleeve,
the point
that pinions
everything
worked free
the door to the tower
opening
onto something
less imaginary.
it was a train that took me away from here
and a train will bring me home.
image from out the waves,
veronica
looks at me still
i imagine,
a star
in the sky, shining
like sun on the water
a million miles away.
i don't need to remember
what i can't forget, a feeling
lodged
so deep below
the surface
it turned the whole breadth of the fountain
to gold, to one gilt object,
as water piled upon water,
sweet blood washing the vein, red
with the breath
i drank
of your face.
so far away
it was a dream:
the chalice,
the tower through which
the blood trails
like a white sleeve,
the point
that pinions
everything
worked free
the door to the tower
opening
onto something
less imaginary.
it was a train that took me away from here
and a train will bring me home.
quietus
i was a magician, a master-weaver.
snakelike, the rhythm to you and i
that i wove again and again.
no escape from the outcome,
as any gambler knows,
but for one shaking minute,
shaking like the leaf of a deadened aspen,
the sequence itself can change,
for one cheated ray of light
the sequence itself can change
like jenga.
patient in pale state
my hide in tatters
(it does not matter)
i wait for my breath
to rebound
what i never
had, what
i always had never had.
snakelike, the rhythm to you and i
that i wove again and again.
no escape from the outcome,
as any gambler knows,
but for one shaking minute,
shaking like the leaf of a deadened aspen,
the sequence itself can change,
for one cheated ray of light
the sequence itself can change
like jenga.
patient in pale state
my hide in tatters
(it does not matter)
i wait for my breath
to rebound
what i never
had, what
i always had never had.
meditations of the beast
variance, the jacquard rose,
against red another lesser red,
next to yellow another yellow.
each color holding its other
still, too still, as if
against the line of time itself.
groundless, as if colors only,
regardless of form, without
any abstraction, that
nexus into which this
damage was
pressed i break
all ways when the night has come
and the land is dark
and the moon is the only light we'll see
no i won't be afraid
no i won't shed a tear
just as long as you
stand
by
me
against red another lesser red,
next to yellow another yellow.
each color holding its other
still, too still, as if
against the line of time itself.
groundless, as if colors only,
regardless of form, without
any abstraction, that
nexus into which this
damage was
pressed i break
all ways when the night has come
and the land is dark
and the moon is the only light we'll see
no i won't be afraid
no i won't shed a tear
just as long as you
stand
by
me
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)