Lo, veg on eye titling ere don't other hone.If all the nite as easy out ripped
From the beginning of my book,
Boy(,)s licked if ice gripped with fingers
Dripped and dropped to pulp,
Then it east err I bleed if ice
Of lonely hotels breaks the same machine
That birthed it.
Sunrise, Juliet, and Caesar fell
This Octavian nitefall: Cupid’s arrow
Splits an apple,
Shakespeare special Lyon to
I shear my quality lines
Formed for the steamy replacement
Of kisses like unmown grass (?).
New lyre modeled to “we rap art” men tripped
Out of magazines
Advertising such things (.)
No longer have me in papier mache (,) .
Rapunzel, I am your hair kissing your
Feet, quivering your legs.
Never rip me out.
this is how feet feel on solid ground;
this is how
the sea feels
when eyes are closed.
the sky is immense, cavern of cloud.
angels there look down.
the dance hall, universe,
all out there for feet to feel like this;
like the calm water asleep
under the weight of deep breathing air.
i curl my wave over ethereal shoulders,
savor the death defying arc.
i reflect, swell under blue, one two,
one two three.
this is how
across my arms
the breeze on the lake
the ripples it makes.
this is how i'll find a form.
angels there float face down.
alleluia saint louie.
angels there waltz on planks of my bones.
rattle me from my second floor,
rattle me bassline walk me on water.
rattle me to headboard to headstone.
rattle me machine gun mouth.
RATTLE ME HEAVEN'S GATES. RATTLE ME MAELSTROM.
rattle me whispering sailboat...
on the horizon's tense cable of light
waver but never break--
breathing.in the wake of you i must take this one breath
there, the snow falls, melts, begs to be something in the dry air.
in the forecast of your arrival from the east
i must take this breath
like so, touching the edges of tables as I walk past
and I go
in the wake of you. i must take this slow breath
through the sickness of waiting in beds full of only my own messes.
in the wake of you there will be glittering sun on your eyes
and in a shitty room you'll make a palace in my mind.
but now, i must take this little breath.
let it get past my choking neck. let it slide over the back of your neck
while you're dreaming, waiting for the wheels to hit that tarmac.
i must take this breath for us and for tomorrow
that will come and be today in your wake
i swear it will, i hope and pray
because god is real and he's in your goddamn face
god is real if i can let this breath go- and not to waste.
Art in Love.This is a sad note for other sad people
who should be happy
they can even read.
In this place, though, unseen
are people that are not sad,
literate, or secular.
Only beautiful trumpets
I want to be allergic,
unicorn this way.
Motorcycle engine melting the skin
of every leg clenched against it.
Dear life, armadillos bursting in the sun
carry on, carrion.
Dear one, it is simple,
mix tape songs.
Sixty deer divided among the men,
hungry for months.
Hear sexy voices trying too hard through walls.
They're speaking English, not their minds,
pieces falling into the mouth of their dumbstruck hungry hearts.
Caught in the headlights of a drunk poem, I was just checking the mail,
heading back inside to turn up the volume.
My aging parents, your aging parents
politely tap on the doors we barricade.
Nature takes in american gay boys, all the young dudes just stranded in Carthage,
Missouri is misery new York knew you're kind and in my mind.
An ocean of lan
Broken ThingNothing I've done
my broken bone
has bleached the marrow
from its darkening trend, slower
...it spreads. Nothing
I say, I do or hear
as I hobble over graveyards,
my mass a solemn crunch upon the drying leaves.
Nothing will return-- might as well
fall down below and see how deep
rabbits can burrow.
but now on the floor of some
bottomless pit of yore, I
bemoan the nothing I feel
below my waist.
Conserve the nothing like it
could save me, but legs
have nothing to do, nothing to do
but run away, captured in the
cave of the sun, the trap of daylight.
So settle in, broken thing, and swell
and discolor however you may.
Echo Log, 3offensive branches
at the edge of the pasture
scribble in the soil
as a man pushes out,
out into the open.
another man comes up
from a nap in the reeds
violating the horizon
behind the lake.
the space between them
with the memory
of plants and beasts
their nymph chases.
there are no small things.
each slave boy tending
patchy vines that was
led by hand into the midst
of elderly trees near the beach;
each farmer who sent their
wives out to gossip and
each of these cases
that implode upon the
are larger and larger,
as bold as the steer
who catches the pink eyes
at morning and winds up
as skin, bone, at heaven's borders.
it's a bald patch in the grass.
it's a song of ravished fields
plowed crazy deep to ripple
just as the agitated surface
of the great cow's drinking water.
sweet calves licking between
the men's calloused fingers
for milk, for anything
the two might have stored up
Thread--Javelin's been thrown thru
& discrete flecks of blood
fall to impacts of meteor (ite)
& nuclear plume.
will someday forgive that.
on a list of to do's A O K
going to float that canoe
down that creek
and what glorious furs
will be hacked
& hewn from
the cubs you produce.
covered all over in garb of yr
and easy to sneak around in
the dark, black tar put
when owls fluff up
a thick plume.
Javelin's been shoved completely thru
and it missed my lungs and my brain
consumes oxygen well enough to
breathing through my nose
like so. automoton in swanky clothes
mink coat with fake eyeballs glued
onto where the edges of scalps
are sewn together. swaddling
Goddess, God issensitive fingertips
on what is or isn't
solid or solidified yet...
gasping for air
at the forest's edge
and, relieved, we are saved from such a
into the cloud cover reflected on the river bed.
we can only look up from below
and see the inversion of what truth
we may know
or think, or write with our
in the lonely snow.
even signposts must be dug a hole.
fire glows in the cold
for fuel it consumes the air the wind blows
and the pure reflection folds and ripples
until the moon lays low on the puddles
at our ankles sensitive toes
frozen it see
Popular Music.Why take the cranium's thrum
unless the pelvic baseline
is withdrawn into an aural
—already it strokes off dusty
bunny fuckers & hardline
fun dumb mentals
with erudite messianics
to sophist jehovah—
—already it beguiles the easy listener
sitting, waiting, wishing
on airplanes in the night sky, not shooting stars
and the second amendment's grizzly
oh my country 'tis of thee,
hard red member underneath
worn white blue jeans!
land on my father's pride
like an airstrip bandaid
to stop the leak of sperm banks,
bailouts for the global drought
make it rain on africa
platinum patois erect the gleaming
statutes of salutes to police state
child soldier solidarity marches