you thrust deep
into the heart
of each cell
of my blood
a gold coin
so that i am flushed
and heavy
with your
worth
zinc metaphor
open split
open
split
open like
a shell
like a shell
with its cream
center so
smooth
i will bury the lightless
inside-bone cavity but i will be told the truth
i will mouthe your image and spit it out like bone
i will crown your brow with brown hide
i will cowl your visage with a broken membrane in my mind
i will do such things
i know not yet what they are
zinc metaphor:
too heavy for plumbing
open
split
open like
a shell
like a shell
with its cream
center so
smooth
i will bury the lightless
inside-bone cavity but i will be told the truth
i will mouthe your image and spit it out like bone
i will crown your brow with brown hide
i will cowl your visage with a broken membrane in my mind
i will do such things
i know not yet what they are
zinc metaphor:
too heavy for plumbing
i wept in a dream
a day of love and war i spent wrapped in a dream, weeping, constant weeping, for you, with your skin like a map and your arteries and veins all opening and closing like the mouths of hungry birdlings.
you kept me a seedling, pounding the ground down over my head with the flat of a shovel. in the fall you would cut the wood for the winter and then spiders would get into it. i was a girl in a fairy tale, in a tower, but i became the haunting. haunting myself i crossed lintels and sills. i left scratches on the panes but they showed only when the glass was fogged.
i am in danger now so i have to leave. just keep in mind how much i wept for you. and stop punishing me, because the asparagus was as thin as a rail and it was too expensive anyway. it's all nonsense anyway. there was some blood on the windowsill, just an old stain, and the words in the glass read
i love you too much to let you go
but it was nonsense, as much nonsense as breath.
and the asparagus got all salty-red-wet.
you kept me a seedling, pounding the ground down over my head with the flat of a shovel. in the fall you would cut the wood for the winter and then spiders would get into it. i was a girl in a fairy tale, in a tower, but i became the haunting. haunting myself i crossed lintels and sills. i left scratches on the panes but they showed only when the glass was fogged.
i am in danger now so i have to leave. just keep in mind how much i wept for you. and stop punishing me, because the asparagus was as thin as a rail and it was too expensive anyway. it's all nonsense anyway. there was some blood on the windowsill, just an old stain, and the words in the glass read
i love you too much to let you go
but it was nonsense, as much nonsense as breath.
and the asparagus got all salty-red-wet.
milton
it was a warm spring day when you locked the door on the tower. when you closed down the windows. you put your finger up and up as if you were trying to unlatch something but instead it closed everything.
and i thought to myself, i am not that person, scratching and raging against that lock like a hoyden. i was outside the window like peter pan, watching the action; i watched that sick little simulacrum in the room enact her beastly tiny passions.
because you punished, she was punishable. so she must be guilty.
something about her must be guilty.
something about her
must
be guilty.
and i thought to myself, i am not that person, scratching and raging against that lock like a hoyden. i was outside the window like peter pan, watching the action; i watched that sick little simulacrum in the room enact her beastly tiny passions.
because you punished, she was punishable. so she must be guilty.
something about her must be guilty.
something about her
must
be guilty.
quietus
when i arrange my love as if a smear
of yellow-gold encrustment on a wound,
infected like an unattended tear--
upholstering skin--the letting of the blood--
when i abide my love but bare, a place
cavernous empty, echoing, empty, caverns--
when i regard my love within my face
its undiluted strength a weft that ravens--
when i address my love, when i address
my love with terms of love, when i belove
my love with terms a dove would creel to press
bare from its beak, when i my love behoove
when i behave with love as if addressed--
when i think any paucit word is clearer
than those i shed, but cannot break the mirror.
of yellow-gold encrustment on a wound,
infected like an unattended tear--
upholstering skin--the letting of the blood--
when i abide my love but bare, a place
cavernous empty, echoing, empty, caverns--
when i regard my love within my face
its undiluted strength a weft that ravens--
when i address my love, when i address
my love with terms of love, when i belove
my love with terms a dove would creel to press
bare from its beak, when i my love behoove
when i behave with love as if addressed--
when i think any paucit word is clearer
than those i shed, but cannot break the mirror.
meditations of the beast
i cleaved down
to the vein of gold
and out spilled
dawn colors
pink as faint
as water in a white bowl
with just three drops
of blood in it
purple-blue like a pulse
under the wrist-skin
but these were just
imaginary, licensed by
a mind not at rest.
the gold ran true, though,
true as my heart.
to the vein of gold
and out spilled
dawn colors
pink as faint
as water in a white bowl
with just three drops
of blood in it
purple-blue like a pulse
under the wrist-skin
but these were just
imaginary, licensed by
a mind not at rest.
the gold ran true, though,
true as my heart.
new monster
you left me
like something flown
the cage
my ribs like
an empty cove
i was your altar
now i am
any shelf
you were my owner
but
now that you are gone
the hand on the leash
is fear's.
my tongue out
to catch
any wayward
gust of you
left
in this
white
emptiness.
like something flown
the cage
my ribs like
an empty cove
i was your altar
now i am
any shelf
you were my owner
but
now that you are gone
the hand on the leash
is fear's.
my tongue out
to catch
any wayward
gust of you
left
in this
white
emptiness.
raucous freshness
time draws the line. addiction through time--i never knew, but time draws it, the line.
i thought i was addicted to drink. i was not addicted to drink. i find that now, when i go for weeks without a drop of drink. nothing in me wants it with white-hot wanting.
and i thought i was addicted to smoking. i am not addicted to smoking. it is sometimes a wistful longing, a pang, the desire for smoking, but nothing like heart-deep, nothing like.
i was addicted to the cut.
and i am still addicted to the cut.
everything in me
unfurled down
that line
made in my skin, everything
pooled
in the shade of that upwelling.
even now i turn to stone
thinking of it, thinking
of loosing
feeling
in its
diasporate freshness,
its rapt white strength
of endurance in creation
and its blind red
result.
i thought i was addicted to drink. i was not addicted to drink. i find that now, when i go for weeks without a drop of drink. nothing in me wants it with white-hot wanting.
and i thought i was addicted to smoking. i am not addicted to smoking. it is sometimes a wistful longing, a pang, the desire for smoking, but nothing like heart-deep, nothing like.
i was addicted to the cut.
and i am still addicted to the cut.
everything in me
unfurled down
that line
made in my skin, everything
pooled
in the shade of that upwelling.
even now i turn to stone
thinking of it, thinking
of loosing
feeling
in its
diasporate freshness,
its rapt white strength
of endurance in creation
and its blind red
result.
dearest
you realize that you're just going to have to do it all over again:
it began with a thought.
there was a cloudburst; there were sieves; there was a screaming thing.
there was the ever-present smell of eucalyptus.
and i thought, i dig my hands into the dirt and i dig up an explosion and
for what? and for what?
and for what did i give
you up?
it began with a thought.
there was a cloudburst; there were sieves; there was a screaming thing.
there was the ever-present smell of eucalyptus.
and i thought, i dig my hands into the dirt and i dig up an explosion and
for what? and for what?
and for what did i give
you up?
roses
o magnum mysterium:
trapped by the literality
of a dumbass metaphor, i
ride
the backroads
of lafayette.
the world is velvet and blue
and the road is as if a feeling--
the road is as if a feeling--
and the curve of the wheel is a thought mirrored
in the action of the car.
the moon is a slice of white glass
counterdistinct to the point it might draw blood
the stars are white and the sky is black
the time is autumn
the flavor of the air is autumnal
autumn days have lovely thick light
and blue shadows, and autumn nights
are shadow piled upon shadow.
o rose in your pale mystery
your lustrous freshness leeched from you perhaps
yet not not ever the pale twilight colors of your drying
and the smell like raisins
o rose in your pale state
you wait for your lover to take you yet
trapped by the literality
of a dumbass metaphor, i
ride
the backroads
of lafayette.
the world is velvet and blue
and the road is as if a feeling--
the road is as if a feeling--
and the curve of the wheel is a thought mirrored
in the action of the car.
the moon is a slice of white glass
counterdistinct to the point it might draw blood
the stars are white and the sky is black
the time is autumn
the flavor of the air is autumnal
autumn days have lovely thick light
and blue shadows, and autumn nights
are shadow piled upon shadow.
o rose in your pale mystery
your lustrous freshness leeched from you perhaps
yet not not ever the pale twilight colors of your drying
and the smell like raisins
o rose in your pale state
you wait for your lover to take you yet
resonance
you await yet
one drop of sanity to salvage itself
from this thing--the smoking wreck
of your sense of safety
and you await it alone because you have learned
to be your own hero
from a disney movie
and you are not good with words
and you are afraid.
but there is no connective thread
in your hand. because flesh
was supposed to be your guard
but it betrayed you.
the connection isn't in your reach--
you watch it writhe somewhere down deep
like a live wire, sending out
such sparks
and you just
hurt yourself.
one drop of sanity to salvage itself
from this thing--the smoking wreck
of your sense of safety
and you await it alone because you have learned
to be your own hero
from a disney movie
and you are not good with words
and you are afraid.
but there is no connective thread
in your hand. because flesh
was supposed to be your guard
but it betrayed you.
the connection isn't in your reach--
you watch it writhe somewhere down deep
like a live wire, sending out
such sparks
and you just
hurt yourself.
ich grolle nicht
because
i don't know
what goes here:
1 01
11 01
10 11
111 0
1101 1
1011 1
0111 1
1111 00
0001 11
0011 10
0111 00
1110 00
111 00? 111? 11111? 11111111?11111111???11? 1?
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
0...
i don't know
what goes here:
1 01
11 01
10 11
111 0
1101 1
1011 1
0111 1
1111 00
0001 11
0011 10
0111 00
1110 00
111 00? 111? 11111? 11111111?11111111???11? 1?
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
0...
veronica
masquerade / paper faces on parade / masquerade / hide your face so the world will never find you
there is a sweater on the floor that my mom knitted of expensive yarn
i will have to take it apart and reknit it because i cannot wear white anymore.
just smile for me and let the day begin /
you are the sunshine that lights my heart within
my love, i bury my face
in your empty shirt.
i drench the cuffs of my shirt
in the spray from my heart.
why is it secret? / what have we to hide?
fingers like icicles
on the inner thigh.
there is a sweater on the floor that my mom knitted of expensive yarn
i will have to take it apart and reknit it because i cannot wear white anymore.
just smile for me and let the day begin /
you are the sunshine that lights my heart within
my love, i bury my face
in your empty shirt.
i drench the cuffs of my shirt
in the spray from my heart.
why is it secret? / what have we to hide?
fingers like icicles
on the inner thigh.
zinc metaphor
i watched you slip by as if a river i looked into
had taken hold of my reflection
and run off with it.
the nitingale bled her note above me
and below were those pomegranates
staining the water.
i was a white thing, hurt's own.
stretched out across the sky like nuit,
light pricked from me.
the real secret of it was
that all my loves became one.
force,
and the vine-covered wall with
the mounded rosemary above it,
wreathed in fog, lit by
the orange street lamp.
force,
and the smoke of the cigarette,
its burn stubbing at my finger-ends,
over-sharp in the throat.
force, and you too
vanesa.
your dark hair i wished
to twine about my wrists--i must have wished
to feel your hair against my throat.
but my arms were lined
only with dry dull wine color
and the zinc-whiteness
of the scar.
everything
conflated
to the point
of nothing
like white teeth
running through a fruit
until nothing is left
no, not even the seed.
even you--
i imagined even you
devoured
by that seared dead whiteness.
which is why i never wanted.
which is why i only loved.
had taken hold of my reflection
and run off with it.
the nitingale bled her note above me
and below were those pomegranates
staining the water.
i was a white thing, hurt's own.
stretched out across the sky like nuit,
light pricked from me.
the real secret of it was
that all my loves became one.
force,
and the vine-covered wall with
the mounded rosemary above it,
wreathed in fog, lit by
the orange street lamp.
force,
and the smoke of the cigarette,
its burn stubbing at my finger-ends,
over-sharp in the throat.
force, and you too
vanesa.
your dark hair i wished
to twine about my wrists--i must have wished
to feel your hair against my throat.
but my arms were lined
only with dry dull wine color
and the zinc-whiteness
of the scar.
everything
conflated
to the point
of nothing
like white teeth
running through a fruit
until nothing is left
no, not even the seed.
even you--
i imagined even you
devoured
by that seared dead whiteness.
which is why i never wanted.
which is why i only loved.
i wept in a dream
i wept in a dream, beloved.
i wept that you were not there or that you were
i wept into the stones your steps had touched
i wept into the hearts of the flowers your eyes had touched.
i wept in a dream, beloved.
teeth like stones, a broken line of jaw and throat
swallowing monumental words and
words' heat, the friction of
the tongue, lips, and teeth.
i wept in a dream that i was not near you.
when i was near you, i wept that i was near you.
i wept at the taste of your shadow in my mouth.
when i awoke, i was still weeping red tears inside the vein.
i wept that you were not there or that you were
i wept into the stones your steps had touched
i wept into the hearts of the flowers your eyes had touched.
i wept in a dream, beloved.
teeth like stones, a broken line of jaw and throat
swallowing monumental words and
words' heat, the friction of
the tongue, lips, and teeth.
i wept in a dream that i was not near you.
when i was near you, i wept that i was near you.
i wept at the taste of your shadow in my mouth.
when i awoke, i was still weeping red tears inside the vein.
milton
and so my blood is powered by you.
it churns against itself for you, running miles and miles
in a taut circle, a claustrophobic dream of red--
you were there, though what i felt was a dream
you were a dream, but what i felt was real.
and so turn, turn, turn, turn, turn, my everything-maker;
up and down run run run run
the stairs to the tower are taut and cold
and the sky is gray as gray velvet
and inside something is striking at the wall
love or force
force in love
up and down the blood runs like
a rodent in a mill
a river cutting across a green landscape
there is a deer stopping to drink in the purple shade
of a poplar, its lines as clean as the running water
my pulse is just your drum
lover
my pulse is just your drum
it churns against itself for you, running miles and miles
in a taut circle, a claustrophobic dream of red--
you were there, though what i felt was a dream
you were a dream, but what i felt was real.
and so turn, turn, turn, turn, turn, my everything-maker;
up and down run run run run
the stairs to the tower are taut and cold
and the sky is gray as gray velvet
and inside something is striking at the wall
love or force
force in love
up and down the blood runs like
a rodent in a mill
a river cutting across a green landscape
there is a deer stopping to drink in the purple shade
of a poplar, its lines as clean as the running water
my pulse is just your drum
lover
my pulse is just your drum
quietus
love is the great good use
one person makes of another
indiscriminate
writing
ripping
things from out
the skin
and merchandising
them
i am
the tool
of sadness
the tool
of labor
i am
a lead weight
i am
colored like
an oyster
with the same
impassable lips
until
any fool rips
me open and
makes me his whore
(little polly
little polly
of the strawberry letter)
one person makes of another
indiscriminate
writing
ripping
things from out
the skin
and merchandising
them
i am
the tool
of sadness
the tool
of labor
i am
a lead weight
i am
colored like
an oyster
with the same
impassable lips
until
any fool rips
me open and
makes me his whore
(little polly
little polly
of the strawberry letter)
meditations of the beast
pouring out everything into a dust-rich air
as if i poured out liquor onto a grave,
in memory of a face.
i spend my life in mourning,
pouring out everything in mourning,
because no other path is forming.
i feel, therefore must feel something.
but love having destroyed me
initially
somehow nullifies
its saving capacity.
and so i am nothing,
nothing that love will give me.
i am the queen of hell.
i am a blank smile.
souls scamper by
in misery and i am still
smiling.
as if i poured out liquor onto a grave,
in memory of a face.
i spend my life in mourning,
pouring out everything in mourning,
because no other path is forming.
i feel, therefore must feel something.
but love having destroyed me
initially
somehow nullifies
its saving capacity.
and so i am nothing,
nothing that love will give me.
i am the queen of hell.
i am a blank smile.
souls scamper by
in misery and i am still
smiling.
new monster
the conferrence of all blame onto myself is an act
of
rage
self-loathing does not make me weak
just
limited
horizons a bloody mess--
the world a cage--
each sunset a butchered side
yet each shining vermilion and
strips of marbled white, the eye of bone
like the sun
i may close my eyes to breathe
but i am nobody's bitch
but my own
of
rage
self-loathing does not make me weak
just
limited
horizons a bloody mess--
the world a cage--
each sunset a butchered side
yet each shining vermilion and
strips of marbled white, the eye of bone
like the sun
i may close my eyes to breathe
but i am nobody's bitch
but my own
raucous freshness
for e.e. cummings
she was so fresh so ridiculously fresh i could smell her when she just walked into the room
so i took her for a spin
it was like spring rolled right off her after a bitter january and i could see what i wanted was it so wrong
to take her out on the road
she was so new
she was so fresh
so new and fresh and tender
and ready to ride in
they don't always know when they are ready
but i could tell.
she was so fresh so ridiculously fresh i could smell her when she just walked into the room
so i took her for a spin
it was like spring rolled right off her after a bitter january and i could see what i wanted was it so wrong
to take her out on the road
she was so new
she was so fresh
so new and fresh and tender
and ready to ride in
they don't always know when they are ready
but i could tell.
dearest
there was something off
about the turn of my feelings for you.
as if you were the knife
i used to slice myself a door
walk into my heart and
carve carve carve.
deep in the hearth of me,
there was a reckoning made
between stone and fire.
i did not wish to hurt
the image of you, not even
with the tiniest breath
of heat...nor to betray
the stone of myself
with anything like hope.
then i was angry at myself
for loving you, until
my stone heart cracked and
the fire poured out.
deep in the cavern of me
is a coin,
flashing gold--the currency of you,
yes,
but also
something concrete
you left behind--
vanesa, i am filled
because you left me your worth.
about the turn of my feelings for you.
as if you were the knife
i used to slice myself a door
walk into my heart and
carve carve carve.
deep in the hearth of me,
there was a reckoning made
between stone and fire.
i did not wish to hurt
the image of you, not even
with the tiniest breath
of heat...nor to betray
the stone of myself
with anything like hope.
then i was angry at myself
for loving you, until
my stone heart cracked and
the fire poured out.
deep in the cavern of me
is a coin,
flashing gold--the currency of you,
yes,
but also
something concrete
you left behind--
vanesa, i am filled
because you left me your worth.
roses
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.
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)