The snow stops
at our bricks or windows or
it doesn't. It finds
a way into the cool grasp
of thought. It begins snowing through
language even. For hours. I can't
believe how cold it is.
What is this unshaken
peal moving through the memory
of a bell? Is everything
remembered here an appeal
of or to the dead? Just as sunlight
on the sleeper gathers
his shape into new dailiness.
Restless seagulls inch
across the backyard, peck a Casio
keyboard dusted with snow.
Cat prints fill in only
to disappear. In every now another
thing persuades at song’s loss. Leftovers
picked clean. Nuclear morning.
Can it really be so
strenuous, this letting the world
appear? An annual unfolds
or a page curls brown
at the tip. How does one manage
to say brown words? Melody is just
another word for hunger.
What little sadnesses
dance free from the black
backyard cable wires around which clutch
the joyously turned veins
of vines. Even in
the black I sense a blacker black
escape.
We visited your parents.
They bought us fish and tickets.
I broke your glasses.
The wolves are at the door.
This train is stopped due
to traffic ahead. We are sorry
for the inconvenience.
Seagulls gracefully circle
the hastily abandoned
bones of hungry schoolchildren.
It is bird weather where
I live every afternoon at half-past
three. For all
their grace the birds remain cannibals.
Do we ask a mountain
to explain itself? Do we ask blinding
how it became song? A girl
sleeps in the bed. A fine red hair
grows on her arms. My eyes
are clumsy, ensconced. Of course
I love her.
Is the light also as painful on
other planets? Who is more used
to sleep? Half-face, a warm clot
of folds. I bought this black
ring. I wear it
strangely. It does something wicked
to my form.
A rabid bat at
noon. My love and I under a nest
of branches. The pond’s song
playing against
them. Painting’s the tree’s
wish, but it remains doomed
to sculpture.
To protract, as to
elide contract. A tender
eye, as to avoid
a tense one. Otherwise part
of the eye is used to
trap the future. A sentence, as
to obviate ending.
After the rain the static
of birds tentative. A stray
car here or there
like white squall. What would home
be in this city of erupting
knees? This dancing city? You
need to speak up.
Wake neck stiff full less
from dreaming than these
stubbly bits of song. Nowhere’s
salutation. I ask you
where we went just moments
ago? Your fingers reply:
now here.
The whirling ceiling
fan jerks
the cerebellum into pulse
like a wet bell
whose tongue sets
off little forks
of white electric foxtrot.
Let the wit of ants
emerge. Be generous
to the bears. Some
tiny thing needs
time to work itself out
the window. Open
bird for breath.
The clouds in our ears
drain the garbage
truck’s shrill passage. Ad-
vertisements sickly ed-
ify the casual jaunt. Nobody
learns from the trees
on the street anymore.
The fire engines drone
their implausible
reminder: you are not at present
burning. Except that
they are wrong. The fire
engine’s crisis is one
of imagination.
Born of fire in the form
of dust. Ton-specks
speck-tones, stone-light, spectral
tongue to smoke
out a lightning of teeth.
A little fire in our jerk and swerve.
A little dust in our bone-knock.
Walking beneath the beery
twist of summer
branches, foaming
with a flutter of green head, I
teach the children strange
wisdom that will
only serve them in different worlds.
Ugly and beautiful at
once like a camel the tree
trunk’s fulsome
fold-wave works itself
into a standing frenzy
beside the silver sedan as sun
inches past our roof.
Truth is comorbid
with depression and failure
today. Light tuning
the page. Only sensations
that announce
the future from now
on.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Sunday, April 05, 2009
ONE MONTH
21
Is all truth an act
of will? How soon
will the previews
for the film of your
life be over? Are we
saying that courtesy
trumps the struggle
against poverty? If
you understand what
the enemy thinks
does he remain on
the offensive? Where
does the hurdling
of stagnant bodies
come to an end?
How does the sun
overcome violence?
Will you remember
that I asked you this
a year from now?
Does the ear fold
to allow compassion?
Can I touch you on
the edge of fury?
When must we cease
to use the world so
compulsively? Could
I love the earth better
than the sky? Will
emancipation continue
invisibly? Is coincidence
the only illustration
of the radical nature of
responsibility? Can it
wait until the coffee
is done? How is each
name condemning
the person it hovers
over? Is guilt what
you call all that boiled
time? When is now
not why’s bitch? Have
the specter of these
hands been a burden
to you? What would it
mean for the world
to be meaningless? Is
there anything more
preposterous? Have
you been listening
to the avenue’s music
this ordinary morning?
22
Can you tell a man
you have only come
to watch him die?
Is our intermittent
love for living offset
by our resentment
at the labor it takes?
Could this century
herald the necessary
reacquaintance of
thought with body?
Have I done enough
to impress moneyed
enterprises? Can’t
the horror of sex
be allayed by total
abandon? Whence
flows this curdle
of intuition? Have
the schools divested
you of what it was
possible to be? Why
does a good person
go into the nightly
rub of faithlessness?
Is it an act of courage
to depend on beings
of innate fallibility?
Should we live by
fact or truth? How
often should wonder
be smothered? Is
this another chance
to do what it is you
have never been
honest enough to
conceive? Doesn’t
the hand itself fly
out in all directions?
Was it too much to
expect an interrogation
of egotism? Why has
place been made void
by complacency? If
love and hate begin
to muddle are we not
doomed? Did you
also wish that bombs
would shake things
up before the towers
fell? Who can escape
this frantic pulsing
to feel the geologies
of time? Is it more
important to create
or cultivate? Why
are my hands still
shaking? Will they
cease engendering
sexual noise amid
city streets? Where
can I get a hallelujah
around here today?
23
Who is responsible
for the psychoacoustics
of streets? What new
emblem drifts torn
in the spindly winter
trees? Can I depend
on the pink barrier
of skin? How imperial
can a woman be? Is
it fair to ask people not
to mutilate themselves?
Why must we encode
lust? Can I deteriorate
the bonds of culture
to see truth? Will it not
bed in contradictions
and rot? Why love
when the mere act of
loving constitutes a
state of friction? Does
her hand around his
neck give him no
pleasure? Beauty’s
not only the seer’s
need to be beautiful
is it? If I scorn god
do I scorn whatever
good lurks in humility?
Is this enormous
grief part of the dead
people? Who better
knows the tidings
of stillness? Perhaps
my own happiness
is merely a symptom
of the universe’s not
stopping? Do you
garrote everything you
find uneconomical?
When will the animals
minimize the human
infraction? Is trade
always asymmetrical
like language? Do
evolution’s dictates
apply equally to
technology? How
rare is this unfolding
day? The gentle way
our hearts rebound
into praise? This rot
that commends us
to the root of waking?
The overlap where
I feel you falling into
each toothsome gap?
Is all truth an act
of will? How soon
will the previews
for the film of your
life be over? Are we
saying that courtesy
trumps the struggle
against poverty? If
you understand what
the enemy thinks
does he remain on
the offensive? Where
does the hurdling
of stagnant bodies
come to an end?
How does the sun
overcome violence?
Will you remember
that I asked you this
a year from now?
Does the ear fold
to allow compassion?
Can I touch you on
the edge of fury?
When must we cease
to use the world so
compulsively? Could
I love the earth better
than the sky? Will
emancipation continue
invisibly? Is coincidence
the only illustration
of the radical nature of
responsibility? Can it
wait until the coffee
is done? How is each
name condemning
the person it hovers
over? Is guilt what
you call all that boiled
time? When is now
not why’s bitch? Have
the specter of these
hands been a burden
to you? What would it
mean for the world
to be meaningless? Is
there anything more
preposterous? Have
you been listening
to the avenue’s music
this ordinary morning?
22
Can you tell a man
you have only come
to watch him die?
Is our intermittent
love for living offset
by our resentment
at the labor it takes?
Could this century
herald the necessary
reacquaintance of
thought with body?
Have I done enough
to impress moneyed
enterprises? Can’t
the horror of sex
be allayed by total
abandon? Whence
flows this curdle
of intuition? Have
the schools divested
you of what it was
possible to be? Why
does a good person
go into the nightly
rub of faithlessness?
Is it an act of courage
to depend on beings
of innate fallibility?
Should we live by
fact or truth? How
often should wonder
be smothered? Is
this another chance
to do what it is you
have never been
honest enough to
conceive? Doesn’t
the hand itself fly
out in all directions?
Was it too much to
expect an interrogation
of egotism? Why has
place been made void
by complacency? If
love and hate begin
to muddle are we not
doomed? Did you
also wish that bombs
would shake things
up before the towers
fell? Who can escape
this frantic pulsing
to feel the geologies
of time? Is it more
important to create
or cultivate? Why
are my hands still
shaking? Will they
cease engendering
sexual noise amid
city streets? Where
can I get a hallelujah
around here today?
23
Who is responsible
for the psychoacoustics
of streets? What new
emblem drifts torn
in the spindly winter
trees? Can I depend
on the pink barrier
of skin? How imperial
can a woman be? Is
it fair to ask people not
to mutilate themselves?
Why must we encode
lust? Can I deteriorate
the bonds of culture
to see truth? Will it not
bed in contradictions
and rot? Why love
when the mere act of
loving constitutes a
state of friction? Does
her hand around his
neck give him no
pleasure? Beauty’s
not only the seer’s
need to be beautiful
is it? If I scorn god
do I scorn whatever
good lurks in humility?
Is this enormous
grief part of the dead
people? Who better
knows the tidings
of stillness? Perhaps
my own happiness
is merely a symptom
of the universe’s not
stopping? Do you
garrote everything you
find uneconomical?
When will the animals
minimize the human
infraction? Is trade
always asymmetrical
like language? Do
evolution’s dictates
apply equally to
technology? How
rare is this unfolding
day? The gentle way
our hearts rebound
into praise? This rot
that commends us
to the root of waking?
The overlap where
I feel you falling into
each toothsome gap?
Monday, March 30, 2009
ONE MONTH
9
What day doesn’t
alter but everything
irrevocably? Can
we sojourners reject
the blinding instinct
to flee? Who says
nomads don’t desire
provenance over
trees? Is this
the final manner we
own to express our
grief? What about
this beautiful fucking
view and the glory
of traveling through
it? Is perfect lust
possible? Whence this
bandwidth of money’s
feedback? Does repetition
fold us into cascading
bolts of boredom or
eroticism or both? Can
you fashion me
some breathable variety?
10
At what point do
the interruptions
common to the act
of interpretation
diminish us? How can
grammar alone leave
me out of breath? Does
love’s indemnity obscure
love itself? How many
ATMs justify the
closing of CBGBs?
Who doesn’t die
from complications?
Is chemistry the chair
we keep falling out
of? Are stars serious
about death? Shouldn’t
one fear the mere
act of writing? Does
each moment retain
its perpendicular goings
on? Why won’t you
give me the answers?
11
Whose black seas are
these unsteadily pouring
into my eyes? Does
racism in collusion
with temperature? Can
our fevering return us
to the electron’s frenzied
hearth? Are you also
a little world so cunningly
made? Do these genii
that speak through our
mouths need help as well?
Where is the sky going?
Where would I be without
these prepositions? Do
philosophers find themselves
hungry for catastrophe?
For whom does this black
wire shudder into shape?
Is vanity throttled less
vain? How often must one
revisit this old blood
jet made precious?
12
Is superstition an
appropriate term
for courting forces
of chaos into step?
Why do our pets
trust us? How is
black symptomatic?
If I forget the color
of your face can I be
said to remain in love
with you? Haven’t
these light-shreds
rent our apartment
into wood-tatters
yet? Why do we use
the plural ‘are’ in
addressing what
would seem to be
the singular ‘you’?
In other words how
is you? What’s wrong
with your happiness?
How does another’s
body intuit how your
limbs will dodge what
it brings into transit?
Can everyone be said
to speak a unique
dialect? Is this organ
for signaling regret?
Does an apprehension
of the end partially
allow its eventuality?
13
Does our architecture
reflect a lusting after
hierarchy? How come
I’m continuously falling
behind? How does hot
dog damage soul? Do
clouds flit about without
disdain? Is school just
another concession
to self-reliance’s loss?
Is there a premonition
of humanity in all cells?
Which of these new
horizons will limit words?
When will the trees give
up and speak? Is each
gait expressive of death?
Is each step a prelude
to collapse? Which isn’t
the way that leads me
to my? And who deigns
to instantiate the final
dispersal of signs? How
wholly struck arrives
life today?
14
Can I fill in one
tone after another
with color without
losing fact? Could
this really be all we
need to perceive
reality? Was cinema
inevitable? Should
you intimate your
capacity for desire
from capacity of your
intimates? How
often returns fact’s
niggling certitude?
Didn’t we deserve
at least this pulsing
dawn death? How
many more times
can we abide by
shoestring catches
of the mind? Is there
a limit to the heart
going timid before
privation? Can I name
this a whirl of ecstatic
commodities? Was
this everything you
felt about canceling
hope? Could our
unmaking begin in
a blaze of the inane?
Was every possible
life intercepted by
a lack of virtue? Is
this a vertical ledger
of despair? Who is it
that gets off on
such wintry stuff?
What day doesn’t
alter but everything
irrevocably? Can
we sojourners reject
the blinding instinct
to flee? Who says
nomads don’t desire
provenance over
trees? Is this
the final manner we
own to express our
grief? What about
this beautiful fucking
view and the glory
of traveling through
it? Is perfect lust
possible? Whence this
bandwidth of money’s
feedback? Does repetition
fold us into cascading
bolts of boredom or
eroticism or both? Can
you fashion me
some breathable variety?
10
At what point do
the interruptions
common to the act
of interpretation
diminish us? How can
grammar alone leave
me out of breath? Does
love’s indemnity obscure
love itself? How many
ATMs justify the
closing of CBGBs?
Who doesn’t die
from complications?
Is chemistry the chair
we keep falling out
of? Are stars serious
about death? Shouldn’t
one fear the mere
act of writing? Does
each moment retain
its perpendicular goings
on? Why won’t you
give me the answers?
11
Whose black seas are
these unsteadily pouring
into my eyes? Does
racism in collusion
with temperature? Can
our fevering return us
to the electron’s frenzied
hearth? Are you also
a little world so cunningly
made? Do these genii
that speak through our
mouths need help as well?
Where is the sky going?
Where would I be without
these prepositions? Do
philosophers find themselves
hungry for catastrophe?
For whom does this black
wire shudder into shape?
Is vanity throttled less
vain? How often must one
revisit this old blood
jet made precious?
12
Is superstition an
appropriate term
for courting forces
of chaos into step?
Why do our pets
trust us? How is
black symptomatic?
If I forget the color
of your face can I be
said to remain in love
with you? Haven’t
these light-shreds
rent our apartment
into wood-tatters
yet? Why do we use
the plural ‘are’ in
addressing what
would seem to be
the singular ‘you’?
In other words how
is you? What’s wrong
with your happiness?
How does another’s
body intuit how your
limbs will dodge what
it brings into transit?
Can everyone be said
to speak a unique
dialect? Is this organ
for signaling regret?
Does an apprehension
of the end partially
allow its eventuality?
13
Does our architecture
reflect a lusting after
hierarchy? How come
I’m continuously falling
behind? How does hot
dog damage soul? Do
clouds flit about without
disdain? Is school just
another concession
to self-reliance’s loss?
Is there a premonition
of humanity in all cells?
Which of these new
horizons will limit words?
When will the trees give
up and speak? Is each
gait expressive of death?
Is each step a prelude
to collapse? Which isn’t
the way that leads me
to my? And who deigns
to instantiate the final
dispersal of signs? How
wholly struck arrives
life today?
14
Can I fill in one
tone after another
with color without
losing fact? Could
this really be all we
need to perceive
reality? Was cinema
inevitable? Should
you intimate your
capacity for desire
from capacity of your
intimates? How
often returns fact’s
niggling certitude?
Didn’t we deserve
at least this pulsing
dawn death? How
many more times
can we abide by
shoestring catches
of the mind? Is there
a limit to the heart
going timid before
privation? Can I name
this a whirl of ecstatic
commodities? Was
this everything you
felt about canceling
hope? Could our
unmaking begin in
a blaze of the inane?
Was every possible
life intercepted by
a lack of virtue? Is
this a vertical ledger
of despair? Who is it
that gets off on
such wintry stuff?
Sunday, March 15, 2009
ONE MONTH
5
How does one beat
back the profusion
of surface? Where
does the eye orbit in
its desire for a world
of wincing depth?
Don’t these trucks
strike whatever lurks
worrying in your gut
with their rattle?
What natural legacy
might justify this
endless using we
make of the world?
When is an individual
not but constantly on
trial?
6
Does the pink fish
of your tongue slip
silence in between
its dark verbiage?
When will this you
you mistake for
others emerge from
plain view? How
often does Sunday
damn intransigent
thought? Would it
be asking too much
for our feelings to
instruct us? Where
absconds this red
tincture of muscle
and bone? Do one
and two work to
foster their simple
distance?
7
Whose crowd is
this swirl of gulls?
How can one live
with any resistance
to the rod and cone’s
effortless despotism?
Would I lie silently
just to feel the still
majesty of inorganic
matter? What bodies
don’t coincide? Why
wear thin the veil
of truth when one
might simply doff
it altogether? Can’t
the song go on even
in the singer’s loss?
Of man or of sun?
8
When does one begin
such accounting as
doubtless accompanies
the loss of the possible?
If advertisements are
so benign why do her
glazed eyes nauseate
so thoroughly? Is this
other’s breath lacing
our own with clout or
death? Where have all
those uninterrupting
clouds gone? Does
the host’s stain linger
on the tongue? Why
does the hand end
in this creepy wave
of fingers? If I own
a teepee do I have
the onus to perform
spiritual duties? Who
doesn’t prefer living
outside the tyranny of
financial abstraction?
How does one beat
back the profusion
of surface? Where
does the eye orbit in
its desire for a world
of wincing depth?
Don’t these trucks
strike whatever lurks
worrying in your gut
with their rattle?
What natural legacy
might justify this
endless using we
make of the world?
When is an individual
not but constantly on
trial?
6
Does the pink fish
of your tongue slip
silence in between
its dark verbiage?
When will this you
you mistake for
others emerge from
plain view? How
often does Sunday
damn intransigent
thought? Would it
be asking too much
for our feelings to
instruct us? Where
absconds this red
tincture of muscle
and bone? Do one
and two work to
foster their simple
distance?
7
Whose crowd is
this swirl of gulls?
How can one live
with any resistance
to the rod and cone’s
effortless despotism?
Would I lie silently
just to feel the still
majesty of inorganic
matter? What bodies
don’t coincide? Why
wear thin the veil
of truth when one
might simply doff
it altogether? Can’t
the song go on even
in the singer’s loss?
Of man or of sun?
8
When does one begin
such accounting as
doubtless accompanies
the loss of the possible?
If advertisements are
so benign why do her
glazed eyes nauseate
so thoroughly? Is this
other’s breath lacing
our own with clout or
death? Where have all
those uninterrupting
clouds gone? Does
the host’s stain linger
on the tongue? Why
does the hand end
in this creepy wave
of fingers? If I own
a teepee do I have
the onus to perform
spiritual duties? Who
doesn’t prefer living
outside the tyranny of
financial abstraction?
Monday, March 09, 2009
ONE MONTH
28
Is this the worst finally
upon us? How much
joy do you think you
can sustain? Why do
this girl’s fingers sway
like pennants when
she talks? From where
issue the hollow forces
of irony? Can I drink
what the throat thinks?
Really? Is now when
what coagulates in mind
finds purchase in heart?
Don’t you have something
worse to do? What’s
wrong with tendering
ambiguity? Can the air
you breathe become
the site of some ecstatic
unraveling? If utopia
linguistically denotes
a place without place
can it have any ethical
stability? Why do these
bilious waves of guilt
winter in my gullet?
Can the movements
toward happiness accrue
in radical environments?
Why is this fallen petal
malingering unnoticed?
Does the mere fact of
living implicate one’s
responsibility to try
dying? Would you all
step a little nearer? Why
does the body insist
on remaining so sure
about the ineptitude
of consciousness? Now
isn’t the succoring
time is it? Where flies
life at such impossible
moments? Does the end
of the month mean
that these words mean
something more? Don’t
the bags in the trees
seem to shudder and
weep today? Wither
fawns this emasculate
cosmology? How much
money does an honest
woman need? Can’t
we just lie in the ribs
of this rusting truck
until the sun comes
up again? Why do we
keep the representations
of our loved ones next
to the representations
of our pecuniary worth
within the folds of some
dead animal’s skin? How
horrific sounds the literal?
If I proffer you my hand
with tidings of humility
will you lead me forth
in this year of blistering
joy? Can you sustain
the amity of my hands?
1
Does each
trouble come
from the fact
that our eyes
lie at the acme
of our face?
2
Is silence speech
that doesn’t quite
reach the surface?
Which one hasn’t
sounded at least
the primary depth
of murder?
3
‘Is the cessation
of pain merely
an impoverished
wish?’ Why do
the many only
remember that
they have a body
when it goes bad?
What percentage
of waking life
should be spent
pursuing spiritual
enlightenment?
4
What does it mean
to call a human
being holy? Is rap
a hymn to rage?
Does this white
smile salvation
light look eerie
with reckoning so
close? Who loves
you like a slave?
Is this the worst finally
upon us? How much
joy do you think you
can sustain? Why do
this girl’s fingers sway
like pennants when
she talks? From where
issue the hollow forces
of irony? Can I drink
what the throat thinks?
Really? Is now when
what coagulates in mind
finds purchase in heart?
Don’t you have something
worse to do? What’s
wrong with tendering
ambiguity? Can the air
you breathe become
the site of some ecstatic
unraveling? If utopia
linguistically denotes
a place without place
can it have any ethical
stability? Why do these
bilious waves of guilt
winter in my gullet?
Can the movements
toward happiness accrue
in radical environments?
Why is this fallen petal
malingering unnoticed?
Does the mere fact of
living implicate one’s
responsibility to try
dying? Would you all
step a little nearer? Why
does the body insist
on remaining so sure
about the ineptitude
of consciousness? Now
isn’t the succoring
time is it? Where flies
life at such impossible
moments? Does the end
of the month mean
that these words mean
something more? Don’t
the bags in the trees
seem to shudder and
weep today? Wither
fawns this emasculate
cosmology? How much
money does an honest
woman need? Can’t
we just lie in the ribs
of this rusting truck
until the sun comes
up again? Why do we
keep the representations
of our loved ones next
to the representations
of our pecuniary worth
within the folds of some
dead animal’s skin? How
horrific sounds the literal?
If I proffer you my hand
with tidings of humility
will you lead me forth
in this year of blistering
joy? Can you sustain
the amity of my hands?
1
Does each
trouble come
from the fact
that our eyes
lie at the acme
of our face?
2
Is silence speech
that doesn’t quite
reach the surface?
Which one hasn’t
sounded at least
the primary depth
of murder?
3
‘Is the cessation
of pain merely
an impoverished
wish?’ Why do
the many only
remember that
they have a body
when it goes bad?
What percentage
of waking life
should be spent
pursuing spiritual
enlightenment?
4
What does it mean
to call a human
being holy? Is rap
a hymn to rage?
Does this white
smile salvation
light look eerie
with reckoning so
close? Who loves
you like a slave?
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
ONE MONTH
26
Has the dollarstore
become another national
symbol? Do the variously
ethnic models in this
beer ad on the 5 train
get drinks together
after the shoot? What
is so deadly American
about perfect teeth?
Can the engagement
with one’s local tongue
excuse the onus
of tackling others?
Are you getting off
at Wall Street or
further down the
ladder? Does every
dream have a secret
lever so as to revolve
into nightmare? Does
the availability of the
current phone strip
it of its brrringing
magic? In what tender
lurks the treasury
of the heart? Don’t it
hurt, this recycling
from bone to bone?
Where would we be
without the U-turn
of humiliation? Must
I always get paid
by the hour? Whence
arrives the chortle
borne by the intimacy
of death? What of
the portion of you that
samples annihilation
among friends? How
heavy hangs the brow
of all ungenerous lovers?
Are all statements
lost in the underlying
ballistics of the question?
What astound us
more than coming
under the slow ease
of wealth? Does this
administration have all
its dicks in a row? Why
wend one’s interior
around the shapeliness
of distant shadows?
Can the rich survive
without war? Does each
bill blow awkwardly
through the mind’s dull
commerce? What dream
is dreamt in the vaults
at night? Is this canceling
dawn the antidote
to time’s horror? How
now? How often we
weary? What new boat
arrives in memory’s
stagnant mooring? If
I say I love you does
that mean I will soon
be owing you money?
27
Is the plagiarism
of future works
a poet’s occupation?
Can new relationships
be forged without
magnetism? Why
waste time loving
the irreparable?
Could the answers
in the trees be
forged of invisible
substances? When
does the ambivalence
about surveillance turn
into revolt? Shouldn’t
there be a name for
the loss of ontological
culture? How come
this hanging takes
so long? Who isn’t
afraid of the ghosts
wind makes of air?
And who doesn’t
desire the membrane
of their embraces
anyhow? Where do
I slur my pattern’s
weft so as to invite
the real? What does
the cat think a sneeze
is? How long will I
be able to inhabit
this class structure?
Why don’t children
name themselves?
Are we allowed to
imagine Adam as
a child? Who says
society’s preservation
trumps the spiritual
requirement for orgy?
Why has this parcel
of land not endeared
itself to someone
enough to harbor
a name? Names aren’t
simply tools for oppression
are they? Who still puts
stock in the hierarchy
of narcissists? Why not
move to some remote
Canadian wood and start
over? Why begin again
when the end is so near?
What is less possible than
not choosing? How do
you like my white smile
salvation light? Can I
touch you in dusk’s
winnowing gully? Why
not? How often does
this dose of finitude
encroach on our daily
wreckage? Won’t you
entangle a little every
day with me? Doesn’t
that ship out on the edge
of the horizon shame
us with its honesty?
Has the dollarstore
become another national
symbol? Do the variously
ethnic models in this
beer ad on the 5 train
get drinks together
after the shoot? What
is so deadly American
about perfect teeth?
Can the engagement
with one’s local tongue
excuse the onus
of tackling others?
Are you getting off
at Wall Street or
further down the
ladder? Does every
dream have a secret
lever so as to revolve
into nightmare? Does
the availability of the
current phone strip
it of its brrringing
magic? In what tender
lurks the treasury
of the heart? Don’t it
hurt, this recycling
from bone to bone?
Where would we be
without the U-turn
of humiliation? Must
I always get paid
by the hour? Whence
arrives the chortle
borne by the intimacy
of death? What of
the portion of you that
samples annihilation
among friends? How
heavy hangs the brow
of all ungenerous lovers?
Are all statements
lost in the underlying
ballistics of the question?
What astound us
more than coming
under the slow ease
of wealth? Does this
administration have all
its dicks in a row? Why
wend one’s interior
around the shapeliness
of distant shadows?
Can the rich survive
without war? Does each
bill blow awkwardly
through the mind’s dull
commerce? What dream
is dreamt in the vaults
at night? Is this canceling
dawn the antidote
to time’s horror? How
now? How often we
weary? What new boat
arrives in memory’s
stagnant mooring? If
I say I love you does
that mean I will soon
be owing you money?
27
Is the plagiarism
of future works
a poet’s occupation?
Can new relationships
be forged without
magnetism? Why
waste time loving
the irreparable?
Could the answers
in the trees be
forged of invisible
substances? When
does the ambivalence
about surveillance turn
into revolt? Shouldn’t
there be a name for
the loss of ontological
culture? How come
this hanging takes
so long? Who isn’t
afraid of the ghosts
wind makes of air?
And who doesn’t
desire the membrane
of their embraces
anyhow? Where do
I slur my pattern’s
weft so as to invite
the real? What does
the cat think a sneeze
is? How long will I
be able to inhabit
this class structure?
Why don’t children
name themselves?
Are we allowed to
imagine Adam as
a child? Who says
society’s preservation
trumps the spiritual
requirement for orgy?
Why has this parcel
of land not endeared
itself to someone
enough to harbor
a name? Names aren’t
simply tools for oppression
are they? Who still puts
stock in the hierarchy
of narcissists? Why not
move to some remote
Canadian wood and start
over? Why begin again
when the end is so near?
What is less possible than
not choosing? How do
you like my white smile
salvation light? Can I
touch you in dusk’s
winnowing gully? Why
not? How often does
this dose of finitude
encroach on our daily
wreckage? Won’t you
entangle a little every
day with me? Doesn’t
that ship out on the edge
of the horizon shame
us with its honesty?
Thursday, February 26, 2009
ONE MONTH
24
Is there a will
to beauty? Does the
ear demand compassion?
Does beauty in horses
arise from a sexual
attraction to power?
What form of living
detracts least from
the others? Do diagonals
replicate an ecology
of resistance? Another
life might be too
many, right? Can
thought avail itself
of the eye’s weaknesses?
Do images necessitate
a force toward the eventual
obliteration of difference?
If religion and logic
are mutually exclusive
shouldn’t we rid ourselves
of them both? Are we
doomed to love
what entertains us?
Are fingerprints our
initial admissions
of guilt? What surface
doesn’t implicate only
another inexhaustible
depth? If we move fast
enough in arbitrary
directions will we cease
to appear? Is gravity
that mute vector that
explains all else?
How ugly can an
organ of pleasure
be? Do you still
fear words? This ninety
degree angle at the corner
of the page doesn’t lead
to the murder inherent
in hierarchical structures
does it? What is the
“earth” made of? How
often have you wished
to slough the body’s
nerve sleeve? Can
space exist without
the coterminous
abstraction of time?
Doesn’t the word
“man” begin to strike
you as being just
a little humiliating?
Does the occurrence
of clouds allow
metaphor’s genesis in
the “primitive” mind?
Does every prize fail
by dint of redundancy?
Is help finally on
the way or have we
ceased to need it?
25
Is subjectivity subject
to ridicule? Do molecules
know better the benefits
of community? Are
questions merely the effect
of being a thing among
things? Where is light
more cinematic than on
the fading vertical face
of the house across
the street at five o’clock?
Is the location of Earth’s
orbit partly responsible
for nostalgia? How is it
that certain animals seem
always to desire what
haphazard affection we
can muster upon arriving
home? When is this
poem best suited
to history? Why do
the trees stand for all
our conjecture? Carry
this fulsome parcel
of energy past its humble
origins, will you? Can’t
dusk trouble us a little
more in this dingy epoch
of bulbs? Did you ever
find your answer in
a song for devout
“primitives” whose
language you had no
way of deciphering?
What is less important
than thought? How has
each name become razed
from the topography
of the epileptic’s brain?
Is it dark yet? Have your
eyes adjusted? Does
the pestle grind away
at your resolve? Do you
grow hearts like a shark
loses teeth or need three
like an octopus? I
wonder what the news
will hate tonight? Was
the corpse of the Chinese
prisoner pliant in the hands
of the sculptor? Why
can I not leave my body
to the animals of the field?
Will night’s chill erase
the tediousness of our
concerns? Join me for
a walk into the already
opening horizon, won’t
you? How come I have
ceased breathing in
normal intervals? Who
is the you you prefer
to leave behind? Will
it disturb us too
radically to go back
to an existence free
from the sins incurred
by agriculture?
Is there a will
to beauty? Does the
ear demand compassion?
Does beauty in horses
arise from a sexual
attraction to power?
What form of living
detracts least from
the others? Do diagonals
replicate an ecology
of resistance? Another
life might be too
many, right? Can
thought avail itself
of the eye’s weaknesses?
Do images necessitate
a force toward the eventual
obliteration of difference?
If religion and logic
are mutually exclusive
shouldn’t we rid ourselves
of them both? Are we
doomed to love
what entertains us?
Are fingerprints our
initial admissions
of guilt? What surface
doesn’t implicate only
another inexhaustible
depth? If we move fast
enough in arbitrary
directions will we cease
to appear? Is gravity
that mute vector that
explains all else?
How ugly can an
organ of pleasure
be? Do you still
fear words? This ninety
degree angle at the corner
of the page doesn’t lead
to the murder inherent
in hierarchical structures
does it? What is the
“earth” made of? How
often have you wished
to slough the body’s
nerve sleeve? Can
space exist without
the coterminous
abstraction of time?
Doesn’t the word
“man” begin to strike
you as being just
a little humiliating?
Does the occurrence
of clouds allow
metaphor’s genesis in
the “primitive” mind?
Does every prize fail
by dint of redundancy?
Is help finally on
the way or have we
ceased to need it?
25
Is subjectivity subject
to ridicule? Do molecules
know better the benefits
of community? Are
questions merely the effect
of being a thing among
things? Where is light
more cinematic than on
the fading vertical face
of the house across
the street at five o’clock?
Is the location of Earth’s
orbit partly responsible
for nostalgia? How is it
that certain animals seem
always to desire what
haphazard affection we
can muster upon arriving
home? When is this
poem best suited
to history? Why do
the trees stand for all
our conjecture? Carry
this fulsome parcel
of energy past its humble
origins, will you? Can’t
dusk trouble us a little
more in this dingy epoch
of bulbs? Did you ever
find your answer in
a song for devout
“primitives” whose
language you had no
way of deciphering?
What is less important
than thought? How has
each name become razed
from the topography
of the epileptic’s brain?
Is it dark yet? Have your
eyes adjusted? Does
the pestle grind away
at your resolve? Do you
grow hearts like a shark
loses teeth or need three
like an octopus? I
wonder what the news
will hate tonight? Was
the corpse of the Chinese
prisoner pliant in the hands
of the sculptor? Why
can I not leave my body
to the animals of the field?
Will night’s chill erase
the tediousness of our
concerns? Join me for
a walk into the already
opening horizon, won’t
you? How come I have
ceased breathing in
normal intervals? Who
is the you you prefer
to leave behind? Will
it disturb us too
radically to go back
to an existence free
from the sins incurred
by agriculture?
Sunday, February 15, 2009
UNMANUAL, PART I
Start with the world
We say don’t paint yourself
Into a corner but think
How ridiculous the word is
To begin with
Start with the world
One animal
Among others
A man is an idea
Had by an upright animal
Overdosing on protein
Start with the world
The single hair that will soon
Cling airily to neighbors
The impediments we only fail
To breach because
Our bodies are temporarily
Too large
Start with the world
Which does not disturb you
For no reason
The square of tamed light
That hovers at the conclusion
Of the room
There are arms
Dangling or thrown in
Ease or fury
Everywhere
Start at the airport
Of the city that overlooks
A sea you cannot drink
The sky is on
Fire at least twice
Every day
Start without
Shame at the abundance
Your eyes leech
From the periphery
Your eyes used up
Until you sense the necessity
For lovelier organs
For want of a compass
You will cross into immense
And once forsaken territories
Where the language of mute vectors
Like light like electrons or
The urging of gravitational bodies
Is audible still
If I speak of time I only succeed
In discrediting grace
We are all gravitational bodies
Where are we all
Headed?
Start as often as you sense
An aversion to it
The body that is
Now anew
That is to say
You are becoming another
Thing wholly astray
There is no pausing
In wonder
At the wreck of the world
Which is rearranging
Past sleep
You can slow
Down or speed
Up but only at
The same time
Start with the bird
Whose name you don’t
Know now laughing
In its lilac bough
Revisit the bed
At inopportune moments
Watch the coyote
Frisking amid the man’s scattered
Articles until your back
Falls into spasm
Every statement belies
A splinter
Of immanent questions
Breathe as though it were possible
Not to
Fall into spasm
Whenever the phone rings you
Should look at a stranger
Before answering
Begin again
At the quest things
Demand from the habitation
Of air
You share
The molecules of the potato
Stolid with their lack
Of charisma nevertheless
Siphon some morning’s triumphant
Bandwidth of sun
Start with the song
Friends make in their enmity
Of night’s passing
Under the emaciated daybreak
Clouds as gypsy cabs
Scuttle forth in Spanish
Radio brain-squawks
This is the morning the cowardly
Fear
When every glancing
Atom starts over
As it has
Every morning of existence
The trees grinning inwardly
At our hopeless rush
Into open air
Which openly harangues
Us in its patent
Refusal to draw close
Today the air tickles
The back of your throat
Like a daring lover
Who fears not the conspiratorial
Plunge it
Probably invented
Like Ellsworth Kelly
Said, “I wanted to recognize things”
We say don’t paint yourself
Into a corner but think
How ridiculous the word is
To begin with
Start with the world
One animal
Among others
A man is an idea
Had by an upright animal
Overdosing on protein
Start with the world
The single hair that will soon
Cling airily to neighbors
The impediments we only fail
To breach because
Our bodies are temporarily
Too large
Start with the world
Which does not disturb you
For no reason
The square of tamed light
That hovers at the conclusion
Of the room
There are arms
Dangling or thrown in
Ease or fury
Everywhere
Start at the airport
Of the city that overlooks
A sea you cannot drink
The sky is on
Fire at least twice
Every day
Start without
Shame at the abundance
Your eyes leech
From the periphery
Your eyes used up
Until you sense the necessity
For lovelier organs
For want of a compass
You will cross into immense
And once forsaken territories
Where the language of mute vectors
Like light like electrons or
The urging of gravitational bodies
Is audible still
If I speak of time I only succeed
In discrediting grace
We are all gravitational bodies
Where are we all
Headed?
Start as often as you sense
An aversion to it
The body that is
Now anew
That is to say
You are becoming another
Thing wholly astray
There is no pausing
In wonder
At the wreck of the world
Which is rearranging
Past sleep
You can slow
Down or speed
Up but only at
The same time
Start with the bird
Whose name you don’t
Know now laughing
In its lilac bough
Revisit the bed
At inopportune moments
Watch the coyote
Frisking amid the man’s scattered
Articles until your back
Falls into spasm
Every statement belies
A splinter
Of immanent questions
Breathe as though it were possible
Not to
Fall into spasm
Whenever the phone rings you
Should look at a stranger
Before answering
Begin again
At the quest things
Demand from the habitation
Of air
You share
The molecules of the potato
Stolid with their lack
Of charisma nevertheless
Siphon some morning’s triumphant
Bandwidth of sun
Start with the song
Friends make in their enmity
Of night’s passing
Under the emaciated daybreak
Clouds as gypsy cabs
Scuttle forth in Spanish
Radio brain-squawks
This is the morning the cowardly
Fear
When every glancing
Atom starts over
As it has
Every morning of existence
The trees grinning inwardly
At our hopeless rush
Into open air
Which openly harangues
Us in its patent
Refusal to draw close
Today the air tickles
The back of your throat
Like a daring lover
Who fears not the conspiratorial
Plunge it
Probably invented
Like Ellsworth Kelly
Said, “I wanted to recognize things”
Thursday, February 05, 2009
FACSIMILES
Sunday morning sun coming
Up over the punctuated
Factory glass of Erie
Pennsylvania, the Erie
Beer Company closed
Forever, green scrap cranes
Still, flaccid almost
As gleaming heaps
Of disassembled metal
Split the light in all
Directions, basking
At Erie’s fringes
The sun’s almost
Solemn orb striated
By fingers of cloud
It nonetheless gobbles
Neon at the borders
Leaving Erie on
A cramped, acrid Amtrak
Scribbling on a snack
Car napkin heading North
Up over the punctuated
Factory glass of Erie
Pennsylvania, the Erie
Beer Company closed
Forever, green scrap cranes
Still, flaccid almost
As gleaming heaps
Of disassembled metal
Split the light in all
Directions, basking
At Erie’s fringes
The sun’s almost
Solemn orb striated
By fingers of cloud
It nonetheless gobbles
Neon at the borders
Leaving Erie on
A cramped, acrid Amtrak
Scribbling on a snack
Car napkin heading North
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
OF/OFTEN/OFF
after Lisa Young
You are the center of every
Someone is speaking well of you
You are heading for a land of
Days of the month
You will inherit a large sum of
A diversity of friends is a credit
Speak only well of people and you
Take advantage of your great
You display the wonderful traits of charm and courtesy
Of good judgment
You are full of a sense of urgency
The best prophet of the future is
Out of an old routine
The love of your life will appear
You have a deep appreciation of
All the preparation you’ve done will
Finally be paying off!
You have a keen sense of humor
You are a person of culture
Your spirit of adventure leads you
As the sweetness of coffee
In a place of cool climate
Wisdom of the ages
Of great adventures
Of interest
The path of life shall lead
The secret of getting ahead
The enjoyment of life
Is often a lonely one
Keep true to the dreams of
Your versatility is one of your outstanding
You are one of the people who
There is a prospect of a thrilling
Simplicity of character is the
Happiness of your life
Art is the
Accomplice of love
You’ll have all sorts of
Your present line of work
Of victory
Soon you will be sitting on top of
God of fortune
You are a bundle of energy
You are a lover of words
And like the role of provider
The star of riches is shining
At the touch of love, everyone
You will always possess
A charm and a sense of
Sometimes the object of the journey is
Off
You are the center of every
Someone is speaking well of you
You are heading for a land of
Days of the month
You will inherit a large sum of
A diversity of friends is a credit
Speak only well of people and you
Take advantage of your great
You display the wonderful traits of charm and courtesy
Of good judgment
You are full of a sense of urgency
The best prophet of the future is
Out of an old routine
The love of your life will appear
You have a deep appreciation of
All the preparation you’ve done will
Finally be paying off!
You have a keen sense of humor
You are a person of culture
Your spirit of adventure leads you
As the sweetness of coffee
In a place of cool climate
Wisdom of the ages
Of great adventures
Of interest
The path of life shall lead
The secret of getting ahead
The enjoyment of life
Is often a lonely one
Keep true to the dreams of
Your versatility is one of your outstanding
You are one of the people who
There is a prospect of a thrilling
Simplicity of character is the
Happiness of your life
Art is the
Accomplice of love
You’ll have all sorts of
Your present line of work
Of victory
Soon you will be sitting on top of
God of fortune
You are a bundle of energy
You are a lover of words
And like the role of provider
The star of riches is shining
At the touch of love, everyone
You will always possess
A charm and a sense of
Sometimes the object of the journey is
Off
Thursday, January 08, 2009
DANCING WITH DISTANT PARTNERS - Luce Irigaray
With the objective and subjective losing their boundaries. With each one of all "things" resting one in the other, pouring themselves out one into the other without bounds. A recalling of a state so long past that few can manage to do it...Entrusting to the other the very rhythm of their breathing...Putting language, the precinct of Being, into danger so that it might regain its voice. Its song...Where the only guide is to call out to the other. Whose breath subtly suffuses the air, like a vibration sensed by those distraught with love.
Here Irigaray is talking about the "venture" a poet must make to get beyond the "inert sky of thought" that man has for so long labored falsely within, with the possibility that he might reach something primary, existential, real. This venture begins with the dissolution of dualisms, which unwieldy work like tripwires against the elegance of his dancing. In this new field that her feet step into, she cannot measure herself against “things” as such, but must move within the net of “things,” which have similarly dissolved, and now present only the interpenetrations of their proximity. The poet pours forward, stepping ahead, tracing no path except the one born from a contingency of movement. In this field, the only wrong step is the one laid knowingly; the only way to lose direction is to look for a compass. The poet steps into the already altering topography of his nearest leanings, as if the horizon had been brought to his immediacy, relenting in elastic distortions to his every movement. This is why the venture requires the recalling of a state “so long past that few can manage to do it.” It is situated in the already. The path remains at the beginning of the step, where what is given spreads out, and where the gift of air surrounds one with the necessity of its embrace, flooding the lungs with reasons to continue. And continue they do, pulsing in and out with the advent of air, falling into the rhythm of breath, which is necessarily shared, perpetuating the conspiracy we make with the other, entraining the two in an improvisatory and porous corporeality. The two that is no longer two, but a shifting conglomerate of forces, all caught up in the movement beyond or before thought, which commends the body into flux, the dance made by those who trust the world and call it sufficient.
This is where the song intercedes. One hears the call, as hearing is the primary sense: immediate, proximate, uncontrollable. The call of the world falls upon us with all its solicitous appeal, resounding direly but without threat. The only threat arrives from within, as one must move past the false hope of thought, that which craves its constructed peace, its false balance, its façade of control that rests heavily upon the flimsiest of conceptual borders. The singer must plant her foot blindly, moving in trust toward the world’s appeal. The singer opens his mouth, forming the shape of disclosure, and pulls air’s swirl into the rhythmic bell of his lungs. What arrives revives itself in the body’s dangerous bloom, which obliterates all delicacy, splitting language’s tenuous ligature, splaying literature into its origins as song. Song is the conspiracy air carries from mouth to mouth, from ear to ear. Here Irigaray mistakes the nature of this conspiracy, which is not subtle. The song is ongoing, patient beyond the need of nuance or inflection. The song is direct, as only the most fundamental facets of existence can be, which isn’t to say that it doesn’t swerve or zag or suffuse the world with what Grosz calls “pivots of unpredictability.” This is the movement of throes, those flights of imbalance that eviscerate geometry, galloping direct yet directionless in the unadorned freedom air provides. This is the movement known to lovers, who find themselves raw, and receive each febrile jolt the body suddenly tunes into its porous orbit. The body is a radio, but more than that it is an instrument. The singer opens her mouth and sings back to the world its ongoing call, responding with intemperate glee, returning and retuning her own cells to the oscillatory embrace air makes of us all.
Here Irigaray is talking about the "venture" a poet must make to get beyond the "inert sky of thought" that man has for so long labored falsely within, with the possibility that he might reach something primary, existential, real. This venture begins with the dissolution of dualisms, which unwieldy work like tripwires against the elegance of his dancing. In this new field that her feet step into, she cannot measure herself against “things” as such, but must move within the net of “things,” which have similarly dissolved, and now present only the interpenetrations of their proximity. The poet pours forward, stepping ahead, tracing no path except the one born from a contingency of movement. In this field, the only wrong step is the one laid knowingly; the only way to lose direction is to look for a compass. The poet steps into the already altering topography of his nearest leanings, as if the horizon had been brought to his immediacy, relenting in elastic distortions to his every movement. This is why the venture requires the recalling of a state “so long past that few can manage to do it.” It is situated in the already. The path remains at the beginning of the step, where what is given spreads out, and where the gift of air surrounds one with the necessity of its embrace, flooding the lungs with reasons to continue. And continue they do, pulsing in and out with the advent of air, falling into the rhythm of breath, which is necessarily shared, perpetuating the conspiracy we make with the other, entraining the two in an improvisatory and porous corporeality. The two that is no longer two, but a shifting conglomerate of forces, all caught up in the movement beyond or before thought, which commends the body into flux, the dance made by those who trust the world and call it sufficient.
This is where the song intercedes. One hears the call, as hearing is the primary sense: immediate, proximate, uncontrollable. The call of the world falls upon us with all its solicitous appeal, resounding direly but without threat. The only threat arrives from within, as one must move past the false hope of thought, that which craves its constructed peace, its false balance, its façade of control that rests heavily upon the flimsiest of conceptual borders. The singer must plant her foot blindly, moving in trust toward the world’s appeal. The singer opens his mouth, forming the shape of disclosure, and pulls air’s swirl into the rhythmic bell of his lungs. What arrives revives itself in the body’s dangerous bloom, which obliterates all delicacy, splitting language’s tenuous ligature, splaying literature into its origins as song. Song is the conspiracy air carries from mouth to mouth, from ear to ear. Here Irigaray mistakes the nature of this conspiracy, which is not subtle. The song is ongoing, patient beyond the need of nuance or inflection. The song is direct, as only the most fundamental facets of existence can be, which isn’t to say that it doesn’t swerve or zag or suffuse the world with what Grosz calls “pivots of unpredictability.” This is the movement of throes, those flights of imbalance that eviscerate geometry, galloping direct yet directionless in the unadorned freedom air provides. This is the movement known to lovers, who find themselves raw, and receive each febrile jolt the body suddenly tunes into its porous orbit. The body is a radio, but more than that it is an instrument. The singer opens her mouth and sings back to the world its ongoing call, responding with intemperate glee, returning and retuning her own cells to the oscillatory embrace air makes of us all.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
“ON THE BASIS OF A GIFT THAT PRECEDES ALL SPEECH”
The gift before, the gift
preceding “thought” but
not that of the body, the gift
in perpetuity, that which has
not left us, a gift of the midwife
of “thought,” she who discloses
the basis of a gift that precedes
all speech, the song that shakes
in appeal’s response, the basis
of a tongue, which finds itself
lost in oscillations, in response
to that which precedes being
the gift subsequent to nothing
a stab of phenomena that pierces
the face of being, that ebbs only
to wax into bloom, the gift of
air, that invisible balloon giving
place to voice, the open that is
the condition of life needs not
be reviled, nor reveiled, not
beshrouded, the gift of air is
the gift of disclosure, of voice
that secretes itself by way of air
that plainest of substances, so
plain that it fills even our least
moments with dire wind, so
tough and unerring it sweeps
forgotten through the very
condition of thought itself
the gift that precedes the need
of giving, a manner of retuning
the slip of matter to its curdle
and sway, the midst that most
strikes us before the necessary
interventions of love, of need
that flows in its wolfing gait, of
swell and succor that arrives
from the body unbidden, as we
err into thought so weary of
breath, so bereaved by the fools
gold that is language, again
the gift that precedes this feral
unfolding, finally struck by how
slowly the air must love, the gift
of abundance abiding beside, as
air’s porous grope concedes to
loom and return, the gift that
wakes these atoms into singe
preceding “thought” but
not that of the body, the gift
in perpetuity, that which has
not left us, a gift of the midwife
of “thought,” she who discloses
the basis of a gift that precedes
all speech, the song that shakes
in appeal’s response, the basis
of a tongue, which finds itself
lost in oscillations, in response
to that which precedes being
the gift subsequent to nothing
a stab of phenomena that pierces
the face of being, that ebbs only
to wax into bloom, the gift of
air, that invisible balloon giving
place to voice, the open that is
the condition of life needs not
be reviled, nor reveiled, not
beshrouded, the gift of air is
the gift of disclosure, of voice
that secretes itself by way of air
that plainest of substances, so
plain that it fills even our least
moments with dire wind, so
tough and unerring it sweeps
forgotten through the very
condition of thought itself
the gift that precedes the need
of giving, a manner of retuning
the slip of matter to its curdle
and sway, the midst that most
strikes us before the necessary
interventions of love, of need
that flows in its wolfing gait, of
swell and succor that arrives
from the body unbidden, as we
err into thought so weary of
breath, so bereaved by the fools
gold that is language, again
the gift that precedes this feral
unfolding, finally struck by how
slowly the air must love, the gift
of abundance abiding beside, as
air’s porous grope concedes to
loom and return, the gift that
wakes these atoms into singe
HYMNING
The appeal that harmony
makes of each bloom
of flesh, each rot
fractal overlapping
matter as light
of its likewise self
shines uncowed by
the sloth of thought
to come as a bloom
of flesh in the open
mouth that is morning’s
body gone song
in the breath sun
makes of its courtly
and distant throb
My son you are weak
beside your own engulfed
manner of flowering
like a shadow that thins
itself into the blade-strew
of rents broaching
the earth and laden
with pinwheel darkness
To blister softly
as the leaves unfurl
and luff in the coil
of wind that wefts
the air to air and
one’s skin to sun’s
simmering orbit
and each gloomy suture
that traces violence
from the world back
to our body belongs
to us as a limb
even as it instantly
absconds like wind
to return in a fled
and phantom pulse
To reenter the margin
of one’s cellular
cacophony only
to stream out in
undignified gulps
when the myriad
splitting atoms turn
over in profusion
To furrow or fold
against the slow greed
that is detachment
so that each coincidence
returns us to the other
and away from the cult
of separation that has
become synonymous with
blind political stupidity
To look upon wood
with the same obvious
glory we do flesh
or some crop of stone
with the same wonder
we mark a child’s
groping frustration
My love I have known
you first and through
that knowing have
remembered a world
so as to reenter it
impurely and perplexed
as befits the senses
which cross in awe
this ever so tenebrous
lurch of moment
that overlaps the next
to form a rhizome
without the benefit
of direction divine
but flowering oblique
with an ignorance
of fear that inhabits
non-human life
To leave humanity
in the great hope
that our entwinement
with the immediate
may extend all as
one’s breath is thrown
to churn amid the air’s
already intoxicating
and transparent muddle
makes of each bloom
of flesh, each rot
fractal overlapping
matter as light
of its likewise self
shines uncowed by
the sloth of thought
to come as a bloom
of flesh in the open
mouth that is morning’s
body gone song
in the breath sun
makes of its courtly
and distant throb
My son you are weak
beside your own engulfed
manner of flowering
like a shadow that thins
itself into the blade-strew
of rents broaching
the earth and laden
with pinwheel darkness
To blister softly
as the leaves unfurl
and luff in the coil
of wind that wefts
the air to air and
one’s skin to sun’s
simmering orbit
and each gloomy suture
that traces violence
from the world back
to our body belongs
to us as a limb
even as it instantly
absconds like wind
to return in a fled
and phantom pulse
To reenter the margin
of one’s cellular
cacophony only
to stream out in
undignified gulps
when the myriad
splitting atoms turn
over in profusion
To furrow or fold
against the slow greed
that is detachment
so that each coincidence
returns us to the other
and away from the cult
of separation that has
become synonymous with
blind political stupidity
To look upon wood
with the same obvious
glory we do flesh
or some crop of stone
with the same wonder
we mark a child’s
groping frustration
My love I have known
you first and through
that knowing have
remembered a world
so as to reenter it
impurely and perplexed
as befits the senses
which cross in awe
this ever so tenebrous
lurch of moment
that overlaps the next
to form a rhizome
without the benefit
of direction divine
but flowering oblique
with an ignorance
of fear that inhabits
non-human life
To leave humanity
in the great hope
that our entwinement
with the immediate
may extend all as
one’s breath is thrown
to churn amid the air’s
already intoxicating
and transparent muddle
Sunday, December 07, 2008
THE FIRST THING A THING
The first thing a thing
is is a question. One wakes
already in the midst
of things and must go
questing after
the unfolding the being
of each thing successively
presents. What could be further
from mundane than
the forbearance of things? I ask
the light what it
is and it replies
like a mountain, silently
exhuming metaphor from
its path like a gnat. And yet
there remains a thing
to which light is still
beholden. Originary holder, huge
and insoluble all
at once. Give up? Air is our
greatest teacher. Its entire
being consists
in allowances, letting the others
emanate. Only the air is more
humble than mountains. It’s so
tough it hugs all day long.
And yet perhaps
this questing is at the heart
of the problem. Man
turns the cadences
of this sensuous expanse
into things of thought. Surely
the light goes on without
the fiddling of neurons. No one
would claim to know
the mountain more clearly or
even the mystery a tree
brings to our eyes, which allows
the air a voice in quaking.
is is a question. One wakes
already in the midst
of things and must go
questing after
the unfolding the being
of each thing successively
presents. What could be further
from mundane than
the forbearance of things? I ask
the light what it
is and it replies
like a mountain, silently
exhuming metaphor from
its path like a gnat. And yet
there remains a thing
to which light is still
beholden. Originary holder, huge
and insoluble all
at once. Give up? Air is our
greatest teacher. Its entire
being consists
in allowances, letting the others
emanate. Only the air is more
humble than mountains. It’s so
tough it hugs all day long.
And yet perhaps
this questing is at the heart
of the problem. Man
turns the cadences
of this sensuous expanse
into things of thought. Surely
the light goes on without
the fiddling of neurons. No one
would claim to know
the mountain more clearly or
even the mystery a tree
brings to our eyes, which allows
the air a voice in quaking.
Saturday, November 01, 2008
FASCICLES
11:00 now the bells complete their horizon
otherwise opening on a novel countenance
the way skin flakes to reveal the further face
cornering thought through a dim freeze
as October intrudes from its calendar crouch
to leap like a skull into a phenomenology
of wind which resorts the atoms into shiver
Does the water emanate from the body
of the earth simply to pool like words atop
the coarse beards of the sleeping elderly
grousing language wintry with brambles
but looking closer we see the fractal grace
the wisps of sound turned awry in the end
so to go darting agile in the ligature of breath
And dance is the only name left for it
this discourteous jangle of fraying nerves
as our neighbors emerge pregnant and clumsy
and beautiful in the hoar breath unfolding
of time’s veiled vesicle fart and recovery
I do believe the sun is keeping us balletic
just as the news ballistic returns in shredding
Fascicles attached loosely in the eye’s veiny
bedding or doubled again with a simple twist
of tongue which clicks damp in the mouth’s bell
of flesh I have been poorly removed while smoke
but range closer in my crumple and grief wince
otherwise opening on a novel countenance
the way skin flakes to reveal the further face
cornering thought through a dim freeze
as October intrudes from its calendar crouch
to leap like a skull into a phenomenology
of wind which resorts the atoms into shiver
Does the water emanate from the body
of the earth simply to pool like words atop
the coarse beards of the sleeping elderly
grousing language wintry with brambles
but looking closer we see the fractal grace
the wisps of sound turned awry in the end
so to go darting agile in the ligature of breath
And dance is the only name left for it
this discourteous jangle of fraying nerves
as our neighbors emerge pregnant and clumsy
and beautiful in the hoar breath unfolding
of time’s veiled vesicle fart and recovery
I do believe the sun is keeping us balletic
just as the news ballistic returns in shredding
Fascicles attached loosely in the eye’s veiny
bedding or doubled again with a simple twist
of tongue which clicks damp in the mouth’s bell
of flesh I have been poorly removed while smoke
but range closer in my crumple and grief wince
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
AFTER TEILHARD
The appeal that harmony
makes of each bloom
of flesh, each rot
fractal overlapping
matter as light
of its likewise self
shines uncowed by
the sloth of thought
To come as a bloom
of flesh in the open
mouth that is morning’s
body gone song
in the breath sun
makes of its courtly
and distant throb
My son you are weak
beside your own engulfed
manner of flowering
like a shadow that thins
itself into the blade-strew
of rents broaching
the earth and laden
with pinwheel darkness
To blister softly
as the leaves unfurl
and luff in the coil
of wind that wefts
one’s skin to sun’s
simmering orbit
makes of each bloom
of flesh, each rot
fractal overlapping
matter as light
of its likewise self
shines uncowed by
the sloth of thought
To come as a bloom
of flesh in the open
mouth that is morning’s
body gone song
in the breath sun
makes of its courtly
and distant throb
My son you are weak
beside your own engulfed
manner of flowering
like a shadow that thins
itself into the blade-strew
of rents broaching
the earth and laden
with pinwheel darkness
To blister softly
as the leaves unfurl
and luff in the coil
of wind that wefts
one’s skin to sun’s
simmering orbit
Sunday, September 07, 2008
GROSS EXAGGERATIONS: PART 2
the music of the body. As such, I still wake
molecular, determined to encounter each
wondrous unfoldment of doing in the parade
from here to there, endangering greed or suffused
by the unwieldy structure of dream that yields to
no autonomy save the interdependent
whole. Every dream has its own nightmare and yet
these children will not be wolves. We are wood people
where the kings speak in oblivion. This silly
hat was given to me by a great woman. Cold
and blood-warm we steel ourselves against the headlines
starting not with the universe, but the duty
to enumerate the universe’s utter
complexity, crashing the windows in rank waves
of seeing, taking the streets with both our ears warped
by fleeing machinery, our nostrils duly
plumbed by each passing hormonal swoop. I finger
a car’s insect-speckled fender and know a stray
will soon be stalking here its incidental break-
fast or merely by the jogger’s sweat-stained brand name
Lycra I better know the neighborhood’s shift toward
an ever-blanchening whiteness. Waking inside
the molecular of my own making, already
not where I was, and moving further in the gaze
gone fetid between the trees.
molecular, determined to encounter each
wondrous unfoldment of doing in the parade
from here to there, endangering greed or suffused
by the unwieldy structure of dream that yields to
no autonomy save the interdependent
whole. Every dream has its own nightmare and yet
these children will not be wolves. We are wood people
where the kings speak in oblivion. This silly
hat was given to me by a great woman. Cold
and blood-warm we steel ourselves against the headlines
starting not with the universe, but the duty
to enumerate the universe’s utter
complexity, crashing the windows in rank waves
of seeing, taking the streets with both our ears warped
by fleeing machinery, our nostrils duly
plumbed by each passing hormonal swoop. I finger
a car’s insect-speckled fender and know a stray
will soon be stalking here its incidental break-
fast or merely by the jogger’s sweat-stained brand name
Lycra I better know the neighborhood’s shift toward
an ever-blanchening whiteness. Waking inside
the molecular of my own making, already
not where I was, and moving further in the gaze
gone fetid between the trees.
Friday, August 15, 2008
GROSS EXAGGERATIONS: PART I
And then to wake molecular in the fetid
gaze merger of trees, I wrest my wearisome ear
from the window’s distant thunder. A woman walks
this town on death’s whooshing blade. I don’t seem to know
Her. The rain begins and everyone else begins
acting like children. It makes me feel Antarctic
to stand in between so much electricity
but I swore I would never be afraid to leave
the bed. Thought-buzz, air-split, pain-spark, throat-fire, waking
molecular in the fetid gaze merger now
neon by day. It was my birthday weekend’s dead
celebrities: men whose anvil voices led them
to a rupture of blood. But I was not feeling
ungood. My cat had taken to sleeping behind
the television. The newspaper contusions
slipped yellow and festive into a new conjure
song for those who would remain animals in spite
of wealth. To wake molecular, to dust the trees
with eye-blear, to stand incarcerated only
by virtue of one’s heart, which spurned all metaphor
to beat on, to bruise, to wake in the rhythm of
a body turning force in the trees’ fetid gaze.
A rupture of blood in the air. A blindness caught
in the leaves. A manner in which to obviate
the sex of dying. The streets weren’t easy. Blinking
wasn’t easy. To know one would forever lurch
forward, oblique, wasn’t easy. Looking out from
a moving target without violating some
body near constantly wasn’t easy. It was
wonderful. Waking molecular in a crash
of sense, not worrisome for the fragments or each
simmering affect shook loose from the dumb-mirror
that had been paid to stand where we could point with ease.
No! No standing, no shooting, no sinking, never
another coaxed boat of sense to moor in time’s mud.
Only this nerve-cape, only another flung veer
for the seer to follow. To look we must grow
weary of looking. The cat does not avert her
eyes. When I was a child I understood how
not to breathe. Now that I’m a man I find myself
taut at each swerve, unable to liquid sideways
to solidly slosh where a miracle might pass.
But as the trees in the leaves wave my mass also
finds a break here and there in its impossibly
convoluted curtain. A slit through which to slip
new, feral, punctured—everything now necessary
in the fetid gaze mergers, the blood rupturing,
the earth not unfriendly in spite of our terrors.
But I know what you would say: out there are people
trying to kill me. As if our lives were but scenes
from The Red Circle or The Samurai, something
with Alain Delon. All of which is true, but death
remains the thing we do not dying. And besides
there are people inside trying to kill you too.
As if your life were a scene from Opening Night,
which it is, as Gena Rowlands inhabits each
of us, or we inhabit her, the flesh of our
reversibility aching through the fake wall
of language. And yet the iterable returns
like sunlight, a weightless expression already
in the act of being said again. So let us
slip together into the contradictions which
pool at our feet, knowing how little knowing can
help, its addled hand groping at the darknesses
that abound here. No here, then nowhere. The reasons
to go on lodged whimsically in the trees’ Y
shaped arms, in their fetid gaze, in the merger we
make simply waking unto sense, waking anew
to ourselves molecular, joisting the air even
in a farce of stillness. My love, your face goes on
parade then, its wiry bouquet of forms morphing
at each symphonic turn. I hand you an answer
my love, always yes. Our eyes sunk into the flit
our hands make roping in the sun’s twittering twine.
We retune like molecules, waking anew now
in the fetid batting of each leaf’s unfurling
eyelash. Like archers who have forsaken targets
we let the world hit us. We who no longer see
allow sight to pour forth like a lewd font upon
the trees’ untaintable flesh. So if I see red
it is only because I love the uncertain
neck her hair curtains or the jellyfishing pulses
that bring her mouth into flush. We suffer only
from abundance. Lack is the lie that has served
to sever the few from the human. I’m going
out for milk, laundry, the bakery’s bludgeoning
air, the crossing-guard’s bored loiter, the cars’ violent
arrival and retreat. Breathing in-out, a bell
for conquering absence, a machine for killing
its own cells. Breathing out-in or conspiring
with trees and dogs and horseflies simply by virtue
of surviving. Killing, conspiring, simply
conquering, bludgeoning, and suffused with the mind
of lost tribes. Well, fuck the mind, and bring all those lost
tribes back for rememberment. Aborigines
deemed agriculture a menace to the glory
of the earth and clothes merely a means to strangle
the music of the body.
gaze merger of trees, I wrest my wearisome ear
from the window’s distant thunder. A woman walks
this town on death’s whooshing blade. I don’t seem to know
Her. The rain begins and everyone else begins
acting like children. It makes me feel Antarctic
to stand in between so much electricity
but I swore I would never be afraid to leave
the bed. Thought-buzz, air-split, pain-spark, throat-fire, waking
molecular in the fetid gaze merger now
neon by day. It was my birthday weekend’s dead
celebrities: men whose anvil voices led them
to a rupture of blood. But I was not feeling
ungood. My cat had taken to sleeping behind
the television. The newspaper contusions
slipped yellow and festive into a new conjure
song for those who would remain animals in spite
of wealth. To wake molecular, to dust the trees
with eye-blear, to stand incarcerated only
by virtue of one’s heart, which spurned all metaphor
to beat on, to bruise, to wake in the rhythm of
a body turning force in the trees’ fetid gaze.
A rupture of blood in the air. A blindness caught
in the leaves. A manner in which to obviate
the sex of dying. The streets weren’t easy. Blinking
wasn’t easy. To know one would forever lurch
forward, oblique, wasn’t easy. Looking out from
a moving target without violating some
body near constantly wasn’t easy. It was
wonderful. Waking molecular in a crash
of sense, not worrisome for the fragments or each
simmering affect shook loose from the dumb-mirror
that had been paid to stand where we could point with ease.
No! No standing, no shooting, no sinking, never
another coaxed boat of sense to moor in time’s mud.
Only this nerve-cape, only another flung veer
for the seer to follow. To look we must grow
weary of looking. The cat does not avert her
eyes. When I was a child I understood how
not to breathe. Now that I’m a man I find myself
taut at each swerve, unable to liquid sideways
to solidly slosh where a miracle might pass.
But as the trees in the leaves wave my mass also
finds a break here and there in its impossibly
convoluted curtain. A slit through which to slip
new, feral, punctured—everything now necessary
in the fetid gaze mergers, the blood rupturing,
the earth not unfriendly in spite of our terrors.
But I know what you would say: out there are people
trying to kill me. As if our lives were but scenes
from The Red Circle or The Samurai, something
with Alain Delon. All of which is true, but death
remains the thing we do not dying. And besides
there are people inside trying to kill you too.
As if your life were a scene from Opening Night,
which it is, as Gena Rowlands inhabits each
of us, or we inhabit her, the flesh of our
reversibility aching through the fake wall
of language. And yet the iterable returns
like sunlight, a weightless expression already
in the act of being said again. So let us
slip together into the contradictions which
pool at our feet, knowing how little knowing can
help, its addled hand groping at the darknesses
that abound here. No here, then nowhere. The reasons
to go on lodged whimsically in the trees’ Y
shaped arms, in their fetid gaze, in the merger we
make simply waking unto sense, waking anew
to ourselves molecular, joisting the air even
in a farce of stillness. My love, your face goes on
parade then, its wiry bouquet of forms morphing
at each symphonic turn. I hand you an answer
my love, always yes. Our eyes sunk into the flit
our hands make roping in the sun’s twittering twine.
We retune like molecules, waking anew now
in the fetid batting of each leaf’s unfurling
eyelash. Like archers who have forsaken targets
we let the world hit us. We who no longer see
allow sight to pour forth like a lewd font upon
the trees’ untaintable flesh. So if I see red
it is only because I love the uncertain
neck her hair curtains or the jellyfishing pulses
that bring her mouth into flush. We suffer only
from abundance. Lack is the lie that has served
to sever the few from the human. I’m going
out for milk, laundry, the bakery’s bludgeoning
air, the crossing-guard’s bored loiter, the cars’ violent
arrival and retreat. Breathing in-out, a bell
for conquering absence, a machine for killing
its own cells. Breathing out-in or conspiring
with trees and dogs and horseflies simply by virtue
of surviving. Killing, conspiring, simply
conquering, bludgeoning, and suffused with the mind
of lost tribes. Well, fuck the mind, and bring all those lost
tribes back for rememberment. Aborigines
deemed agriculture a menace to the glory
of the earth and clothes merely a means to strangle
the music of the body.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
THE BEGINNING OF THE CONTINUING ADVENTURES OF LITTLE MISS FUNNY BUTTONS
Little Miss Funny Buttons or MFB
That’s what her dad and I call her
The littlest fourth in our family
In addition to me, dad, and Walter
She earned her nickname just last year
Though it seems like she’s had it forever
And the story about it is very dear
Our strange adventure together
One more thing you’ll come to know
Is a singular creature named Squibbons
Who loved to steal both thread and bows
Or any small fragment of ribbon
It started last summer behind the house
Where our daughter Olivia played
We lived in the middle of bird and mouse
On a ranch my grandfather made
Now Olivia wasn’t the kind of girl
Who stayed out of trouble for long
If I dressed her all in white like a pearl
By night she was green from the lawn
So it wasn’t strange to see her tracks
Color the floors brown and muddy
But soon a combination of facts
Became quite a curious study
One afternoon as the shadows grew
Olivia entered the kitchen
Wearing a dress I bought her new
But missing a delicate smidgeon.
“Olivia!” I said with surprise
“Where is your fourth fancy button?”
And under a set of confused little eyes
She said, “Mom, I haven’t done nothing
I went to the trees in the back of the yard
Where the branches make everything shady
And found a spot where the dirt wasn’t hard…”
“You napped in the dirt young lady!”
“Well, first I covered the ground with leaves
So my new dress wouldn’t get dirty…”
“And then let me guess, some forest thieves
Stole the button, like field mice or birdies.”
That’s how it was, day after day
Olivia’s buttons would vanish
Whenever she went to the backyard to play
And her stories were growing outlandish
The last straw was a red velvet dress
That matched Olivia’s hair
One night at dinner she sadly confessed
It was had disappeared into thin air
Until, finally, I needed to know
Who the button-thief actually was
I dressed in green from head to toe
And crept like a quiet thing does
What I saw that day was Olivia signaling
Around the dark mouth of a cave
All of the sudden, a creature was wriggling
To the edge of the shadows she made.
Even within Olivia’s cover
The creature appeared to glow
It squeaked out a word that sounded like mother
And Olivia replied, “I know.”
“The truth is I think you should meet
Mom, stop trying to hide!”
The cheeks on my face turned red as rare meat
Embarrassed that I’d been out-spied
“She looks just like my Christmas tree
Your strangely monochrome mom,”
Said Squibbons with obvious glee
As he climbed into MFB’s palm
“Do you think it’s time we showed her in?”
She asked with a little girl shrug
He answered with a curious grin
And gave her ring finger a hug
So I slowly stepped out from the bush
Behind which I had been hiding
And Olivia gave me a gentle push
Into the cave without lighting
Lights there weren’t, but we could see
As plainly as if it were day
For Squibbons just so happened to be
A glowworm lighting the way
I had to stoop low for the cave was small
Though it seemed to go on forever
At last we came to a booming hall
With a little bed made out of feathers
I could see Olivia had been here before
By the drawings all colored with chalk
One was of Squibbons with buttons galore
And on this she gave a strange knock
When I heard it echo I knew at once
Something inside it must hide
The secret I’d been tracking for months
Was revealed as the wall opened wide
What was behind it you’d never guess
A scraggly tree covered in charms!
With a very familiar red velvet dress
That was cut and draped in its arms
Every button that had disappeared
Could be found on this wonderful tree
And even if it seems a little weird
I couldn’t help filling with glee
It sparkled and shined in the wormy glow
And we all laughed at the riddle
That only our family has come to know
Though you now stand in the middle
We hope you will keep our secret alive
And remember to button your tree
We’ll see you again next time you arrive
At the adventures of MFB
That’s what her dad and I call her
The littlest fourth in our family
In addition to me, dad, and Walter
She earned her nickname just last year
Though it seems like she’s had it forever
And the story about it is very dear
Our strange adventure together
One more thing you’ll come to know
Is a singular creature named Squibbons
Who loved to steal both thread and bows
Or any small fragment of ribbon
It started last summer behind the house
Where our daughter Olivia played
We lived in the middle of bird and mouse
On a ranch my grandfather made
Now Olivia wasn’t the kind of girl
Who stayed out of trouble for long
If I dressed her all in white like a pearl
By night she was green from the lawn
So it wasn’t strange to see her tracks
Color the floors brown and muddy
But soon a combination of facts
Became quite a curious study
One afternoon as the shadows grew
Olivia entered the kitchen
Wearing a dress I bought her new
But missing a delicate smidgeon.
“Olivia!” I said with surprise
“Where is your fourth fancy button?”
And under a set of confused little eyes
She said, “Mom, I haven’t done nothing
I went to the trees in the back of the yard
Where the branches make everything shady
And found a spot where the dirt wasn’t hard…”
“You napped in the dirt young lady!”
“Well, first I covered the ground with leaves
So my new dress wouldn’t get dirty…”
“And then let me guess, some forest thieves
Stole the button, like field mice or birdies.”
That’s how it was, day after day
Olivia’s buttons would vanish
Whenever she went to the backyard to play
And her stories were growing outlandish
The last straw was a red velvet dress
That matched Olivia’s hair
One night at dinner she sadly confessed
It was had disappeared into thin air
Until, finally, I needed to know
Who the button-thief actually was
I dressed in green from head to toe
And crept like a quiet thing does
What I saw that day was Olivia signaling
Around the dark mouth of a cave
All of the sudden, a creature was wriggling
To the edge of the shadows she made.
Even within Olivia’s cover
The creature appeared to glow
It squeaked out a word that sounded like mother
And Olivia replied, “I know.”
“The truth is I think you should meet
Mom, stop trying to hide!”
The cheeks on my face turned red as rare meat
Embarrassed that I’d been out-spied
“She looks just like my Christmas tree
Your strangely monochrome mom,”
Said Squibbons with obvious glee
As he climbed into MFB’s palm
“Do you think it’s time we showed her in?”
She asked with a little girl shrug
He answered with a curious grin
And gave her ring finger a hug
So I slowly stepped out from the bush
Behind which I had been hiding
And Olivia gave me a gentle push
Into the cave without lighting
Lights there weren’t, but we could see
As plainly as if it were day
For Squibbons just so happened to be
A glowworm lighting the way
I had to stoop low for the cave was small
Though it seemed to go on forever
At last we came to a booming hall
With a little bed made out of feathers
I could see Olivia had been here before
By the drawings all colored with chalk
One was of Squibbons with buttons galore
And on this she gave a strange knock
When I heard it echo I knew at once
Something inside it must hide
The secret I’d been tracking for months
Was revealed as the wall opened wide
What was behind it you’d never guess
A scraggly tree covered in charms!
With a very familiar red velvet dress
That was cut and draped in its arms
Every button that had disappeared
Could be found on this wonderful tree
And even if it seems a little weird
I couldn’t help filling with glee
It sparkled and shined in the wormy glow
And we all laughed at the riddle
That only our family has come to know
Though you now stand in the middle
We hope you will keep our secret alive
And remember to button your tree
We’ll see you again next time you arrive
At the adventures of MFB
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
NEW SEVENS
After the rain the
birds tentative. A stray
car here there
like white squall. What
is home in
this city of erupting
knees? This city of dancing?
Wake neck
stiff full less
from dreaming than from
stubbly bits of song.
Where did we go
only just a moment
ago? Now here.
The whirling ceiling
fan jerks
the cerebellum into pulse
like a wet bell
whose tongue sets
off little forks
of white electric dance.
birds tentative. A stray
car here there
like white squall. What
is home in
this city of erupting
knees? This city of dancing?
Wake neck
stiff full less
from dreaming than from
stubbly bits of song.
Where did we go
only just a moment
ago? Now here.
The whirling ceiling
fan jerks
the cerebellum into pulse
like a wet bell
whose tongue sets
off little forks
of white electric dance.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)