and what is not
the i between
into that which
matters taken out
distanciation for footing
as in cursive
this one you
between the slip
Monday, June 30, 2008
you are telling me
you firm unspeaking
doing other than what
or a fierce
fierce quiet covering
like a blanket of
(the insane mumble a search
to the unsaid)
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Since you told me you hate
what you write, I've formulated every trite
or profound encouragement as bait,
hooks for your mind or heart.
Hate is distraction. You must
love where you can, love
what you can. Hate is untidy
love. Hate is
half-hearted. Find your beautiful burning
hands in your memory's wick.
Tricks. Everything so
much simpler. What
I really want to tell you
is there are words here, waiting for yours.
On this page, on the next.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
not concerned enough with each bright
inside not the same
as outdoors this
semblance of self-contained seen
apart the striated panoply
roundabout seeing seen
as within a tube of lightning
contained others and
not unlike looking deeply at the bereaved
a no-thing in turn without
its twofold absented sense
of 3 years scent traced later
peer into the interned (twined)
twin of… and then to
apply rules to memory
this affect(ed) (ing)
attenuated (delineating) contexts
exact or exacting
Monday, June 23, 2008
the self-contained seen part of a many-parted panoply
seeing roundabout that panoply and its
not unlike looking at a deeply loved thing
2 years later
the rules that apply ...memory...affect...(e)motion...(s)pace
Saturday, June 21, 2008
beware the tin temple
the silver-tongued, the brazen,
behold the falling ashes
city new-sprung, light reigniting
people nearer positions close
to never scatter to scamper to
fly forth green, seascape beyond
moat, their voices wings in
flight attempting with each bat
to catch up, behold that cave-shadow
beyond and farther still the tin sound
growth a whispered rush crawling
close now in the dusk squint to
see clear the onslaught shimmers
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
glass in her mouth from her past, her throat is a mess.
that once-timed destruction
of place encounter
against the backdrop
classic greek style
the sea (grows old)
of place or encounter
individual waves erasing
a history (is in the details
ready to surface
in an instant)
the taste textured
against a place
After Small Variation by Miranda
Beached angel, wing-split wrung round
balconies, spinning Flamenco pink as thighs, a dress or
vision—my sister’s? Stretched space between
her shoulder blades, stubble-stumps, a scrapped message:
we’re in the mood for faith. Alms pressed to arms, to
what revelations? The dangerous need to go home.
Now her wings fold, she has no seeds incanting
constant motion. This luminous filled space betwixt strangers'
hips, elbows. Then to kneel, a keel evened to stay with
vehicles to assume futures post-2012 Mayan calendars.
Plead with a green strip, sign from a jungle. Epochs’
derailed demise, thwarted, accosted we draw straws
and signals, speak in tongues, say be here! keep quiet!
go forth! Flight patterns’ tired pride. Trials she
can’t counter to count upon this book, the good red
throat raised in glass gasps, limping, the tattered
wing’s emargination, to drag us forth as a dead limb
against dust. She is just the sort of hissing angel
that won't go away for good. It's what we wanted, weathervanes
in the waning light. Lifted up, whimpering among the pews.
Listening ear close to shoulder, transept’s marble tiles crossing
themselves. A foreboding whispered to us all along...
why didn’t you think of it before her fall?
Thursday, June 12, 2008
she named her car Godzilla Greed, a monster in demise, plummeting but pragmatic, the cost of the fucking mileage already slowing her across countrysides. she as Medea, the sorceress who ate her children, or was that the spider-witch, how she'd always been suspicious of motherhood. wind hissing through the mouths of her snake-hair, or was that Medusa, who could bear no children and was so beautiful, turned good company to stone whatever hero approached from the horizon. frozen by a reflection. how she tried so hard not to be self-reflective, to escape self-analysis, knew where it would lead: suicidal, writhing luggage like dreads. another premium price for the damn tank, the scent of gasoline on her fingers lighting his cigarette. running from her demise or the child's while the snakes try to be good company along the shattered seats.
Friday, June 6, 2008
a train on fire catching
cascades [falling falling turning over]
like monsters in demise [plummeting or blown apart]
moving across countrysides
toward a sun temple
[monsters blown apart] [a hero approaches from the horizon]
caskets mildew in the mist
hero jumping the train
[fire and demise] [plummeting] [at high speed]
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Mediterranean balcony, Mother spinning,
pink Flamenco dress around her thighs. My sister's
dangerous mood, arms stretched, reveals
the need to go home. Now her wings
fold she has no need, but she shouts at me, be here! knowing
I can't be. Constant motion fills space between
shoulder-blades, strangers' hips and elbows -
knees. To stay with vehicles is to assume future
movement so she stays with beached
boats, derailed trains. Keep it quiet,
was once said and she agreed and tries,
but she can't
when he riles her. Glass
in her mouth from her past, her throat
is a mess. It's the red sort that won't
go away despite
or for good weather.
It's what we wanted,
she whispers to me,
all along... don't you think?
After Sue Chenette's Libation (click her title to see her poem), posted in April. (+See comments for process note on what I was doing if you are interested.)
Jeweled scythe. Hurl. One apricot poured and pores
framed fallow waning, off flux lithe, tape-ends
boiled mourn-signs, witch trolling wrung drowned
tea howls two darned! Agean – armfulls grumpier.
Watch heathered, saloon-porched (bliss) we concurred, un-
waning slathered grasped, a gain in Even spatulas
circum ambulations, stilled futurist I can’t! nations. Wept.
(I’m told, gruel?) I’m bold, you? Flashlit into spam
thorough hazed arms spin less Motrin as a grin
prayed for her nose hair, a dozy sways, to camp can’t
see you, she says. It strikes ant draws off hits iron plight.
Horror halls in daisies eye, mustard piano pique (pianissimo).
Pro-miser in Faulkner saucy griddled halls. Chrirrup sparadas
the ‘n’ in christalisation. My groan (silver burlesques,
cockle spells). Spear reason slit entire draught
hits parched rabbit (fungus and fungal, sigh lad, her
larder knot rites i-ching green sleepy brunches,
bracken-flung, ravines post-host, fur, flora for depletion).
About Paris, jaundice
turns her cautionary eyes
toward the smoke-filled doorways
and the customs agents' hisses and
the lick of wounded monsters,
a wet of ethics,
not of morals.