another feather.a bird on the electric cable
is at sunset a silhouette
and it could fly up at any moment
but the air is hesitant and hasty.
now one thousand starlings
cram down a road on the poles and wires
settling one by one in the sagging arcs.
i want to scream out this last word: arcs.
does ours rise and fall like a rainbow--
does the arc stop at the treeline, chromatically subdued?
the high telephone poles can barely hold all the crows
the black lines droop with voltage and vultures
how then does our arc go as it slips down the road?
i'm looking close at what i see and i feel that
the power still pumps through the veins,
that the pressure that puts the limbs to sleep
can be lifted and removed.
the arc of our love is weighted by birds as they flew in
and no one bird can be seen as the leader--
but two telephone poles can hold their ends high
and the course of electricity flow will sputter through
the claws that dig into it, the birds i could scatter
to the trees every time they call and approach.
Rope.An empire of wires
like the wind could blow no harder.
Tip a glass to your mouth
like it's full of anything quenching.
Are there deserts for atheists
to cross for their lack of faith?
Is the gift of this mad kingdom
a heated debate in cauterized vanity?
The yearning of 1000 steam engines
on abandoned tracks
with no travelers.
The empire of wires is tapped
on the cold shoulder by the
hot sun's balmy boulder.
These cords chain in
electric love & yearning &
the Hindenberg burning down
to the chilled over ground.
pretty pink.this is the most violent beauty:
few memories are fond memories.
young pregnant wives in fatal car crashes
are made elegies after even this...
are made too pretty pink
with wax petal lilies and roses.
there is tragedy in simplicity
and triumph is found in the details.
sadness, too, fills in low spots
like pools of stagnant water
but the trees grow as they will,
no pesticides, no stilts...
craggy trunks twisted and dried
over the years and the years.
at least, the very least,
hideous truths exist
and influence existence...
for clouds must be almost nothing
to defy gravity for even a little while.
No Class Today.i admit to a campus fantasy
with noreasters billowing out above the
autumn gilded canopy . . .
as a beacon on a hill can ever be
caressing thoughts of dead eternity
bright eyed i believe in things
that glint at me gaudily
and effortless i escort myself
through a humble memory of being bled out--
the detriment of everything i've held
closer than mothered babies
is sojourned toward
every moment afforded for
realism, insatiable and fixed to floorboards.
now, i've admitted to my eyesores
if a sort of demeanor i've found once
is used precisely and widely
across all my mutterings and rants . . .
the words form into a step pattern
for a rain dance, and the drizzle of boston
falls like it did on us in our first cobblestones.
babe, i don't know what this posturing is good for
when i'm more comfy slouched against your side
as you sit upright online
and graze my naked forearm . . .
collegiate boys don't have it all
just ambitions to conform.
i, too, admit to wanting
enigma.some strange thing exists
and it is not me. it is not.
it has no face on any side
and it has no place to reflect my face back.
the enigma is in the dawn as it erupts over the sea
some language of stars mouths can't speak
relinquish this body into the marsh of living muck
slopping up around the rest of me.
i can't even tell you what i'm seeing. it is not me.
it is not.
The First Cat's Meow.it pains me to say
the hate in my heart out loud
and the taste in my mouth
seeing it written out leaves
is a manure pile cowled around
a stomach seeping bile;
but i have enough of myself left
to curl around it.
(the first cat's meow.)
oh, there is a whirlpool galaxy
that holds my planet in its long arms
and that planet cannot comprehend
much beyond itself.
the baby planet, waking up just now to having one intention.
birth is a buzz of bees rushing around with no queen yet.
i happened to find my king.
(it is still meowing.)
i hate the planet and i love the planet and i am the planet.
(insistent cat's meow.)
i have found mirrors in his eyes
i don't like what he has to see.
i break myself down, put myself in filing cabinets
sort myself by year and date and emotion
and construct a database, throwing loosened ends
into a safe deposit box.
for him. i have no use for these things.
myself. the planet.
there is something better to mirrors than what they reflect.
there is a mystery world bac