new monster
details, bleached and splitting, warping
as if in the sun of my thoughts--as if my mind
were a thing of light and not just pressure.
there is a time, it told me,
its words as crystalline, as incised against
each other
as cut
glass,
to drink the juice
from the vein.
but i was awake, sitting up
as if from a dream, as if from a bed
i had slept in
as if a seed in earth
and the whole time
i had been watching the light twist into shadow
as if there were anything in this world
beyond
the wild reach
of pressure.
as if in the sun of my thoughts--as if my mind
were a thing of light and not just pressure.
there is a time, it told me,
its words as crystalline, as incised against
each other
as cut
glass,
to drink the juice
from the vein.
but i was awake, sitting up
as if from a dream, as if from a bed
i had slept in
as if a seed in earth
and the whole time
i had been watching the light twist into shadow
as if there were anything in this world
beyond
the wild reach
of pressure.
raucous freshness
there is no logic without a god
to hold it against--i turned you into a prayer
because you were sweet to the roof of my mouth
and when i breathed in i breathed in your shadow,
because you rolled like an orange between teeth,
so frail, so flavorful.
but a god's logic is not our logic. the roll of you
against the dental crest, as if when i said your name
i touched you, or thought of you.
as if i could love you without mouthing more
than your name. i lay in a borges dream
soaked in blood, fist-deep in flowers,
breathing weary as a tiger
against the bars of an
interdental cage.
and the seed twisted
hyacinthine
between the jail of my ribs
fed on nothing but the blood of your name
and the flower of my breath.
to hold it against--i turned you into a prayer
because you were sweet to the roof of my mouth
and when i breathed in i breathed in your shadow,
because you rolled like an orange between teeth,
so frail, so flavorful.
but a god's logic is not our logic. the roll of you
against the dental crest, as if when i said your name
i touched you, or thought of you.
as if i could love you without mouthing more
than your name. i lay in a borges dream
soaked in blood, fist-deep in flowers,
breathing weary as a tiger
against the bars of an
interdental cage.
and the seed twisted
hyacinthine
between the jail of my ribs
fed on nothing but the blood of your name
and the flower of my breath.
dearest
these pathetic ways i hurt myself, still,
the eternal apprehension of death
an excuse to keep myself up all night.
i spend the hours admiring the city's private spill of stars,
immediate enough to tongue, the reflected street lights
in the rainslick on the pavement,
light
a nocturnal emission.
to care for oneself is
terrible, unsettling
as the bone-husband
of Persephone.
biting down on the seed,
juice
exploding
as if juice were light
from the microcosm
of the street, just as inept
as this body
at keeping
dry,
and as
inept
at rest.
the eternal apprehension of death
an excuse to keep myself up all night.
i spend the hours admiring the city's private spill of stars,
immediate enough to tongue, the reflected street lights
in the rainslick on the pavement,
light
a nocturnal emission.
to care for oneself is
terrible, unsettling
as the bone-husband
of Persephone.
biting down on the seed,
juice
exploding
as if juice were light
from the microcosm
of the street, just as inept
as this body
at keeping
dry,
and as
inept
at rest.
roses
in all honesty,
at this point,
i could ask myself what i am waiting
to acquire--
the beauty of an abstract
painting,
or a trifecta of die-cast
virtues--a suture
for some internal rip,
or something stranger: the discoloration of my eyes
as if they were a doll's eyes, my hand
the slender pale hand
of a waxen statue, the release
of an inner
inanimate
nature,
my nature...
as if, prayed for, i were a galatea, become
human
only to have time
stop about her
like a stiff garment.
i want to hold myself still as memory,
still as flesh can stay.
at this point,
i could ask myself what i am waiting
to acquire--
the beauty of an abstract
painting,
or a trifecta of die-cast
virtues--a suture
for some internal rip,
or something stranger: the discoloration of my eyes
as if they were a doll's eyes, my hand
the slender pale hand
of a waxen statue, the release
of an inner
inanimate
nature,
my nature...
as if, prayed for, i were a galatea, become
human
only to have time
stop about her
like a stiff garment.
i want to hold myself still as memory,
still as flesh can stay.
resonance
innumerable as a Seurat blue,
the points to life range
the span of time
like petals sinking into a pool.
your face is a mandala, therefore,
each moment of you
a grain i spilled on the floor.
time raised you up like a welt
and i slipped into its repentance.
time raised you up like a leaf
airborne without precedent.
your face is a mandala, therefore,
each moment of you
a grain i spilled on the floor.
the points to life range
the span of time
like petals sinking into a pool.
your face is a mandala, therefore,
each moment of you
a grain i spilled on the floor.
time raised you up like a welt
and i slipped into its repentance.
time raised you up like a leaf
airborne without precedent.
your face is a mandala, therefore,
each moment of you
a grain i spilled on the floor.
ich grolle nicht (sonnet-form)
awake again all night
and alone, time thick with shadows,
the t.v. going and the radio, maybe
i am finally distracted enough
to be able to say that, god,
i have known joy in pain but not like this,
every moment jewel-thick with its own worth
and each moment in hell.
(the t.v. going and the radio, maybe,
awake again all night,
and alone, time thick
every moment jewel-thick
and each moment in hell.
and each moment in hell.)
and alone, time thick with shadows,
the t.v. going and the radio, maybe
i am finally distracted enough
to be able to say that, god,
i have known joy in pain but not like this,
every moment jewel-thick with its own worth
and each moment in hell.
(the t.v. going and the radio, maybe,
awake again all night,
and alone, time thick
every moment jewel-thick
and each moment in hell.
and each moment in hell.)
veronica
still, taut
as a cat
waits.
they all thought
i would sleep
in a lily-white bed,
blankets clean
and crisp
as the stars overhead,
without memories
of stifling,
until i was done
breathing in
and out
scorn--
a sensitive nature,
i waited
until they were spent,
and now i take
my own.
you left me alone
like an easter egg
and
i had
bad dreams.
as a cat
waits.
they all thought
i would sleep
in a lily-white bed,
blankets clean
and crisp
as the stars overhead,
without memories
of stifling,
until i was done
breathing in
and out
scorn--
a sensitive nature,
i waited
until they were spent,
and now i take
my own.
you left me alone
like an easter egg
and
i had
bad dreams.
zinc metaphor
the dream is of
a landscape littered
solely
with its own length
and its own breadth:
a space, crumpled
between substance and
concept like
a sheet gripped
in clutching hands.
turned this way and that
i am a snow globe of positions.
the things i do not allow myself
are only the things i need
if i cannot cajole this one
pathetic miracle--
the rough pleating
of substance
and concept--
into the length and breadth
of my hands.
a landscape littered
solely
with its own length
and its own breadth:
a space, crumpled
between substance and
concept like
a sheet gripped
in clutching hands.
turned this way and that
i am a snow globe of positions.
the things i do not allow myself
are only the things i need
if i cannot cajole this one
pathetic miracle--
the rough pleating
of substance
and concept--
into the length and breadth
of my hands.
i wept in a dream
i wept in a dream, beloved.
i wept that you were there
and i wept that you were not there.
if you were there, i wept,
then,
that i was not there, or that
i was, o my lover, with
your eyes and mouth like
stars.
i wept that you were there
and i wept that you were not there.
if you were there, i wept,
then,
that i was not there, or that
i was, o my lover, with
your eyes and mouth like
stars.
milton
the thing is that
when incising
the flesh turns
on the point
of the knife and
not the other way around.
it was something
to center on.
now i have nothing
but happiness,
and that, terrifyingly,
is not
a dream.
when incising
the flesh turns
on the point
of the knife and
not the other way around.
it was something
to center on.
now i have nothing
but happiness,
and that, terrifyingly,
is not
a dream.
quietus
as if i were made
of particle-board,
screw happiness
into me,
o god.
i have
resisted
with my eyes
and hands
the touch
of it,
your most
refulgent
gift.
but it crept in
through my ears and mouth
and vibrates on
a crystal pitch--
your logic is not
my logic, god.
i am held
in the palm
of your hand,
blind,
and you make
me sing,
sing most
anything.
of particle-board,
screw happiness
into me,
o god.
i have
resisted
with my eyes
and hands
the touch
of it,
your most
refulgent
gift.
but it crept in
through my ears and mouth
and vibrates on
a crystal pitch--
your logic is not
my logic, god.
i am held
in the palm
of your hand,
blind,
and you make
me sing,
sing most
anything.
meditations of the beast
burrowing toward center
in the darkness,
the smell of jade-green forest
and sunset, the smell
even of a sun-warmed feather
a bird dropped
in exploding
cacophonous
from a treetop
the swirl of wings
the sky's metonym
and the choked stomach
of the earth
and the water flowed
like diamonds.
this was the blood in the vein.
i looked up
and i said your word.
in the darkness,
the smell of jade-green forest
and sunset, the smell
even of a sun-warmed feather
a bird dropped
in exploding
cacophonous
from a treetop
the swirl of wings
the sky's metonym
and the choked stomach
of the earth
and the water flowed
like diamonds.
this was the blood in the vein.
i looked up
and i said your word.
new monster
i called for you
and you didn't come.
it bears
repeating:
i called for you
and you didn't come.
impossible for this to be
a true betrayal,
girl with your red blood mouth
and your hair as dark as a memory.
when we owed each other
nothing
beyond my obsession.
ergo there must be some point stuck
still
deeper than this
and broken off
at the hilt,
lost
to its handle.
and you didn't come.
it bears
repeating:
i called for you
and you didn't come.
impossible for this to be
a true betrayal,
girl with your red blood mouth
and your hair as dark as a memory.
when we owed each other
nothing
beyond my obsession.
ergo there must be some point stuck
still
deeper than this
and broken off
at the hilt,
lost
to its handle.
raucous freshness
laura turned into a game for petrarch,
a chase through stone monuments
with green moss new-rhizomed on them
every year
every year he came back to her
and said something new on her face...
i feel wild tonight wild and cyclical
thinking of you
vanesa
of how i would think your name and
feel chasms open like windows in me
and light come up from them
from the molten core of me itself
the earth inside not red but like a sun.
and so my purpose
quite plain
vanesa
i do not re-rewrite your name
but live the legacy
you made in me
and write
what does not pass for poetry
a chase through stone monuments
with green moss new-rhizomed on them
every year
every year he came back to her
and said something new on her face...
i feel wild tonight wild and cyclical
thinking of you
vanesa
of how i would think your name and
feel chasms open like windows in me
and light come up from them
from the molten core of me itself
the earth inside not red but like a sun.
and so my purpose
quite plain
vanesa
i do not re-rewrite your name
but live the legacy
you made in me
and write
what does not pass for poetry
dearest
something about the way
the shell works,
the infinity of the shell,
the shell's rest,
lies split
on sand,
and what was within
goes shaking, slithering, dragging
itself
from moment to moment,
from tide to tide.
i looked inside--
forceless and infinite
i found the tide
i dug myself down--
hey down a down
past the shell to the bone
and in this deep night,
dearest, i claim you
vanesa
it was you i loved
vanesa
i name you.
the shell works,
the infinity of the shell,
the shell's rest,
lies split
on sand,
and what was within
goes shaking, slithering, dragging
itself
from moment to moment,
from tide to tide.
i looked inside--
forceless and infinite
i found the tide
i dug myself down--
hey down a down
past the shell to the bone
and in this deep night,
dearest, i claim you
vanesa
it was you i loved
vanesa
i name you.
roses
hurting for a framework of words
with which to house
this blank sacrament of feeling
the feeling of suture
of being threaded
together
along lines, irradiate
between white and black
a spectrum as hollow as whole.
the thing is that the white and black are not the same but they exist simultaneously in the same place. thus i am strung by what may loosely be termed a paradox. and the whole world seems to thrum along these strings which collect within themselves moment after moment, while i hang back in fear and in love, mourning what time has discarded, uselessly human. this is not a metaphor, it is a description, and hence a bulletin from the abyss. but i will drag myself out. and then time will pay for all it has broken.
with which to house
this blank sacrament of feeling
the feeling of suture
of being threaded
together
along lines, irradiate
between white and black
a spectrum as hollow as whole.
the thing is that the white and black are not the same but they exist simultaneously in the same place. thus i am strung by what may loosely be termed a paradox. and the whole world seems to thrum along these strings which collect within themselves moment after moment, while i hang back in fear and in love, mourning what time has discarded, uselessly human. this is not a metaphor, it is a description, and hence a bulletin from the abyss. but i will drag myself out. and then time will pay for all it has broken.
resonance
there is no answer in vengeance because vengeance is only the apparition of repetition.
this is why in the morning i would go and prune my climbing roses.
i would fork spade after spade of nutrient-rich ground
back over the roots, a morning ritual.
and then i would wind the cut stems around my wrists
and pretend i was capable of filling death
with something other than life,
like duty, or shame,
or the nutrient-rich corrosion
of an unacknowledged self...
but the roses were props
and the pretense was hollow.
now i philosophize
inside
and the rose grows
a tangle
over the wall of the house.
this is why in the morning i would go and prune my climbing roses.
i would fork spade after spade of nutrient-rich ground
back over the roots, a morning ritual.
and then i would wind the cut stems around my wrists
and pretend i was capable of filling death
with something other than life,
like duty, or shame,
or the nutrient-rich corrosion
of an unacknowledged self...
but the roses were props
and the pretense was hollow.
now i philosophize
inside
and the rose grows
a tangle
over the wall of the house.
ich grolle nicht
but if i never deserved to feel love the first time, why would i deserve to do anything like love again? wasn't the first time stolen, against all odds, against overwhelming evidence? something filched from time, put into place only
by virtue of
a fugitive
will?
there is a song
casting its thin thread
across Stygian waters:
vanesa, vanesa,
i drank
nothing
from the chalice
of your face.
by virtue of
a fugitive
will?
there is a song
casting its thin thread
across Stygian waters:
vanesa, vanesa,
i drank
nothing
from the chalice
of your face.
veronica
half-living here at
the flooding end of time,
a planed and constant fear
at the back of my mouth--
afloat,
clinging
to meaning,
meaning
in memory
as slender
as the
print
of a
foot
on pavement
in my mind, i suck your shadow from the stone.
i remake your foot from the taste of the ground.
in memory, i spiral down, down, down,
to the rock and to the bone.
the flooding end of time,
a planed and constant fear
at the back of my mouth--
afloat,
clinging
to meaning,
meaning
in memory
as slender
as the
of a
foot
on pavement
in my mind, i suck your shadow from the stone.
i remake your foot from the taste of the ground.
in memory, i spiral down, down, down,
to the rock and to the bone.
zinc metaphor
charon says:
she was not
even
halfway there
monseigneur
she saw
the water-road
unfold
before
her dark eyes
heard
the spent ones'
cries
she jumped
into the waves
and said let me
swim for shore
she had paid in
full
monseigneur
so i did not
stop her
i do not know
if she is still
swimming
she was not
even
halfway there
monseigneur
she saw
the water-road
unfold
before
her dark eyes
heard
the spent ones'
cries
she jumped
into the waves
and said let me
swim for shore
she had paid in
full
monseigneur
so i did not
stop her
i do not know
if she is still
swimming
i wept in a dream
petrarch chased laura over the woods-road, feet trapping on roots grown into the way, sunlight filtered to green and umber above and the road itself below of old and swollen flagstone, the moss gathering between stone-breaks flowering in flakes of white. the air in his mouth tasted sweeter than other air. he heard her laugh as he pushed back curtains of hanging lichens and found himself at the abbey. she was leaning against the stones of the ruined gate, in red, smiling, her long black hair in a thick knot at the nape of her neck and as he walked up to her she disappeared naturally.
but he knew what to do: dropped to his knees because it had happened this way countless times and licked the pavement where she had stood. swallowed. and the sounds of her loveliness came in strands from his throat. he gathered them and bound them around his wrists. and he couched back on his heels and imagined satyrs and clerics come to him and mark the moment, bless his devotion as a beautiful process...
but in his mind there was a tree being smothered by its own shadow. and when he woke with moonlight stretched across his face, he stood and looked out into the hot night and knew
that with or without her he still was dreaming
and the moonlight stretched like a hand over venice.
but he knew what to do: dropped to his knees because it had happened this way countless times and licked the pavement where she had stood. swallowed. and the sounds of her loveliness came in strands from his throat. he gathered them and bound them around his wrists. and he couched back on his heels and imagined satyrs and clerics come to him and mark the moment, bless his devotion as a beautiful process...
but in his mind there was a tree being smothered by its own shadow. and when he woke with moonlight stretched across his face, he stood and looked out into the hot night and knew
that with or without her he still was dreaming
and the moonlight stretched like a hand over venice.
milton
it was just a dream, the tower built from the thick smoke of offerings.
because there was nothing to offer and nothing to burn.
the cavern roof rose clean as it had ever been.
now i offer my fear to you o god.
i put it on the altar of this frame of me,
the flesh and bony bits and the neural semaphore.
the flag of flame unrolls--i will live in smoke
but no matter.
to you vanesa who asked nothing
i leave the act of burning.
because there was nothing to offer and nothing to burn.
the cavern roof rose clean as it had ever been.
now i offer my fear to you o god.
i put it on the altar of this frame of me,
the flesh and bony bits and the neural semaphore.
the flag of flame unrolls--i will live in smoke
but no matter.
to you vanesa who asked nothing
i leave the act of burning.
quietus
my hair looks in the mirror like a thatched roof
when will my hair stop looking like a thatched roof?
lover when you come to me
lover when you come to me.
my eyes are in the mirror like two coals
when will my eyes be less like two coals?
lover when you come to me
lover when you come to me.
my cheek is blank in the mirror like an unlined sheet
when will my cheek not be an unlined sheet?
lover when you come to me
lover when you come to me.
my brow is in the mirror like a coin
when will my brow be spent like a coin?
lover when you come to me
lover when you come to me.
my mouth is in the mirror like a tight-tied bow
when will my mouth be bought and sold?
lover when you come to me
lover when you come to me.
when will my hair stop looking like a thatched roof?
lover when you come to me
lover when you come to me.
my eyes are in the mirror like two coals
when will my eyes be less like two coals?
lover when you come to me
lover when you come to me.
my cheek is blank in the mirror like an unlined sheet
when will my cheek not be an unlined sheet?
lover when you come to me
lover when you come to me.
my brow is in the mirror like a coin
when will my brow be spent like a coin?
lover when you come to me
lover when you come to me.
my mouth is in the mirror like a tight-tied bow
when will my mouth be bought and sold?
lover when you come to me
lover when you come to me.
meditations of the beast
blank:
vanesa i have writ your name in every word
and thereby writ nothing--syllables, phonemes
all washing clear against each other like ice
melting in the glass.
a clear pane
through which to see writ your name
full:
vanesa every word
draws toward you
every word is made
your word
a clear pane
through which to see your name
vanesa i have writ your name in every word
and thereby writ nothing--syllables, phonemes
all washing clear against each other like ice
melting in the glass.
a clear pane
through which to see writ your name
full:
vanesa every word
draws toward you
every word is made
your word
a clear pane
through which to see your name
new monster
sick and feeble and
slinking
away from all i had known
i looked back at time and
wondered
i wondered where
the beginning had
gone
and
i wondered why
everything always
was new-
begun.
my bones felt
like matchsticks
under a blazing sun.
i curled myself upon
rock
as if
i could truly
shade
the ground.
the only
left
thing
was the bone
and the blood--
the rest i
shed
like a breath
the rest i
shed
like a breath
the rest i
shed
like a breath
slinking
away from all i had known
i looked back at time and
wondered
i wondered where
the beginning had
gone
and
i wondered why
everything always
was new-
begun.
my bones felt
like matchsticks
under a blazing sun.
i curled myself upon
rock
as if
i could truly
shade
the ground.
the only
left
thing
was the bone
and the blood--
the rest i
shed
like a breath
the rest i
shed
like a breath
the rest i
shed
like a breath
raucous freshness
i have handled worse than these,
you say to yourself, and say it freely--
the beauty of a saw
scraping the wood away
from itself,
as if your words
are a heel
scraped
on concrete--
the words would be
truer yet if you
had the breath
left
to say them.
you say to yourself, and say it freely--
the beauty of a saw
scraping the wood away
from itself,
as if your words
are a heel
scraped
on concrete--
the words would be
truer yet if you
had the breath
left
to say them.
dearest
and was it so
bad?
when you ended
up
with such smooth
fingers, your
mind
a merry
oyster
and glistening
within,
the pearl?
tell me, you, have i
never expressed my
gratitude?
through teeth chipping
and yellow like
old paint
have i
really never
really never
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
stand by me
bad?
when you ended
up
with such smooth
fingers, your
mind
a merry
oyster
and glistening
within,
the pearl?
tell me, you, have i
never expressed my
gratitude?
through teeth chipping
and yellow like
old paint
have i
really never
really never
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
stand by me
roses
meditations of the beast:
i stare into your fire, red rose,
your heart like lips and your lips like blood,
your blood on fire.
against the ground
it runs
gathering
dry things
to itself--
determine the blaze, rose.
taste the meaning
of the blaze.
taste my meaning,
take it in your petals
and know
until the end of time
how you loved the smear of it,
red rose,
your heart
dry and chapped
as a
thirsty
mouth.
i stare into your fire, red rose,
your heart like lips and your lips like blood,
your blood on fire.
against the ground
it runs
gathering
dry things
to itself--
determine the blaze, rose.
taste the meaning
of the blaze.
taste my meaning,
take it in your petals
and know
until the end of time
how you loved the smear of it,
red rose,
your heart
dry and chapped
as a
thirsty
mouth.
resonance
i will never be spent
in composing your elegy,
your elegy of red.
if i were to embroider your face
i would embroider in red silks,
on cloth dyed red.
i would dye the cloth myself
with a long hair brush of my hair,
with handprints of red,
with red i had made myself,
and when i had finished sewing you
i would undo
every
last
stitch
in composing your elegy,
your elegy of red.
if i were to embroider your face
i would embroider in red silks,
on cloth dyed red.
i would dye the cloth myself
with a long hair brush of my hair,
with handprints of red,
with red i had made myself,
and when i had finished sewing you
i would undo
every
last
stitch
ich grolle nicht
the issues are complexified
by facts i cannot go into right now.
but for an instance:
that labyrinth borges harps on about.
where what's mirrored is wilder
than the image it projects.
and at the same time every double
is as real as that which it has doubled.
because according to some other beautiful culture
there are ways
to get behind
the image
and see the image
behind the image.
my thoughts pathless,
writhing
like a tangle
of black
harp strings.
by facts i cannot go into right now.
but for an instance:
that labyrinth borges harps on about.
where what's mirrored is wilder
than the image it projects.
and at the same time every double
is as real as that which it has doubled.
because according to some other beautiful culture
there are ways
to get behind
the image
and see the image
behind the image.
my thoughts pathless,
writhing
like a tangle
of black
harp strings.
veronica
i held you closer
and closer
until
nothing
but cloth
divided us
i invited you in
i let you turn me
like a season
i turned you like
a season i turned you
sharpness to shadow
pleasure on pleasure.
as if we were yellow
as roses, i invited you in,
i let you turn me
like a season.
from spring to summer
i turned you forward.
a poppy bloomed
in the dooryard
of your bed.
from spring to winter
you turned me; you held
my face
against the time
and you turned me.
and closer
until
nothing
but cloth
divided us
i invited you in
i let you turn me
like a season
i turned you like
a season i turned you
sharpness to shadow
pleasure on pleasure.
as if we were yellow
as roses, i invited you in,
i let you turn me
like a season.
from spring to summer
i turned you forward.
a poppy bloomed
in the dooryard
of your bed.
from spring to winter
you turned me; you held
my face
against the time
and you turned me.
zinc metaphor
love
love is
love is tied
tied up
up in
tied up in pain
like
like fat
like fat ties
ties up
up the
ties up the vein.
love is
love is tied
tied up
up in
tied up in pain
like
like fat
like fat ties
ties up
up the
ties up the vein.
i wept in a dream
but i don't know what i saw.
i lay ont the ground with geryon
watching the wickedest arrow
dive into
st. sebastian, the patron saint
of love
and we felt for resonance we felt for it together
but instead
i reached inside
and pulled
and pulled
and pulled and
(as if one barb
could be turned
into a full bloom)
i saw blood
eventually.
i lay ont the ground with geryon
watching the wickedest arrow
dive into
st. sebastian, the patron saint
of love
and we felt for resonance we felt for it together
but instead
i reached inside
and pulled
and pulled
and pulled and
(as if one barb
could be turned
into a full bloom)
i saw blood
eventually.
milton
geryon lay on the ground.
above and beyond him, around
the tower and the column of his breath
grew roses tangled
like hair
dragged through earth.
the roses had their own pulses
against the gray and blue sky.
they marbled geryon's sight
and he thought that if
he could just dive into pain
once again
as if into clean water
wash the moment
of his being
clean
of itself
wash himself clean
of himself
but expurgation was
an impossibility
so geryon looked
to the ribboned
rose-rimmed sky
as if to a knife.
but it was not a knife
and nothing
was safe
above and beyond him, around
the tower and the column of his breath
grew roses tangled
like hair
dragged through earth.
the roses had their own pulses
against the gray and blue sky.
they marbled geryon's sight
and he thought that if
he could just dive into pain
once again
as if into clean water
wash the moment
of his being
clean
of itself
wash himself clean
of himself
but expurgation was
an impossibility
so geryon looked
to the ribboned
rose-rimmed sky
as if to a knife.
but it was not a knife
and nothing
was safe
quietus
geryon was a monster. everything about him was red.
i was within a cosmic self-friendship,
something casual.
but the blue world
turned me into a battlefield.
i saw red-running hands
their red turning to silver
in water and the water
turning red.
the moon trailed a path
against the lake
and there was nothing left
to view through the window
nothing left
so the glass shattered.
when i thrust
a fist
against it.
i was within a cosmic self-friendship,
something casual.
but the blue world
turned me into a battlefield.
i saw red-running hands
their red turning to silver
in water and the water
turning red.
the moon trailed a path
against the lake
and there was nothing left
to view through the window
nothing left
so the glass shattered.
when i thrust
a fist
against it.
meditations of the beast
meditations of the beast:
carve time and space
out of what is available
and leave
what can only somewhat be
behind
to strip the ground
and grow,
its waxen leaves
reflecting moonlight
and when broken
loosing
finest
sap
are there many little boys who think that they
are a monster? but in my case
for better or for worse i am right.
carve time and space
out of what is available
and leave
what can only somewhat be
behind
to strip the ground
and grow,
its waxen leaves
reflecting moonlight
and when broken
loosing
finest
sap
are there many little boys who think that they
are a monster? but in my case
for better or for worse i am right.
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