my hands soar over water
across islands
born and unborn
from and back to the black horizon
i lay crystalline lace
over magma
mossy visages of rock
living mortals
and their ruined gods
do i tire?
there is no leaving the loom
while there is light in this day
there is light in my eyes
unblinking seeking sewing
the invisible pattern

i make, unmake, and am made

i want you to take
nice easy breaths
in through your nose
and out through your mouth
i'm going to put my hands
here

and

here

and place just a few fingers here

and

here

just feeling for specific areas that may be holding
negative energy
perhaps here

or

here

down on your chin
over here

and

here

moving up your cheek
to alleviate any stress
much of this tension appears
to be spreading

focus on the air
leaving your lungs
'til it begins to soften
i'll be very careful
you're in the early
stages of annihilation
feel my hand
here

and

walking runner huh
cut to down emphatic
heavy setback
i see it!

feeling expansive
missing you less
minuscule deaths
ha!

reach me
please will die
swaying so
eating my emotions
selfish shrinking
heavy fault

feeling expansive
a missing you inside
honesty sickness air
a funeral infinite
won't reach me

eating away
quietness quietly
laughing at
ha!

dissipation

answer me / truthfully

was it waste
was it lie
to hate, in haste,
cut, cum, comply,
and never cease
to not be chaste,
shirk recompense,
sincere reply?
or overreaching,
sink to preaching
of dangers of the
aimless life?

answer me / truthfully

when i was sick
like now
ain’t nobody come
round here
but i ain’t nobody
sometimes
anyhow

i
don’t wanna know you
i just wanna feel you

once

i got a bit of doubt
sensed i was worth more
til i tested it out

i'm feelin hard n' feelin hurt
been draggin myself around town,
tradin sorrow with guilt don't work
but ya gotta try, when you're down.
figure maybe i'm in love
or maybe i'm near death
mistakin every kindness
for 'nother borrowed breath.
hmm think i'll throw a party
to myself, in the spirit -
of farewell to my whole life
but i won't be there to see it.

^ in the style of belle & sebastian w/ a bit of american twang somehow. lots of lilting piano to break it up over ~2 minutes.

she woke in sadness. the dream-goodbye fell away, as the curtain of dawn slips from the granite face. she was left in longing, unrested, alone in the whispering valley. she looked up at the dark wall, the kingless castle in the sky, and willed it to crumble. it did not. she looked away. the dream-goodbye is gone but not far, circling high overhead.

ecstatic

uh uh uh huhuh uh uhuh huhh huh ecstatic
embrace me gently, skeletonly
into the night intently
dark-en-ing so sweetly
uh huh uh uh huh huh uh uh uhhh ecstatic
uh uh uh uh huhuh uh uh uh ecstatic
come on baby
get off me baby
repair imper-a-tive-ly
it's light-en-ing already
dawn has started thrusting
uh uh ecstatic-ly

nothing compares

i float across the parking lot under the concrete sky. i'm detached, i'm gonna buy shoes. silently i sing along with prince, "i went to the doctor and guess what he told me, guess what he told me? he said, 'boy you better try to have fun no matter what you do,' but he's a fool." yeah, they've all been fools. today i strut through the mall with a gold chain around my neck that reads "death poems," cuz when i'm feeling extra immaterial i drape myself in extra materials, i suck up shit like the, like the what, like the $49.94 bissell powerforce, on sale, hmm good deal. i see and am seen by the bissell, and the girl at the iphone case kiosk, and the looming crowds. i look down on it all, and my place within it. i am sullied but mostly sully (what, what do i sully, the earth, by this purchase of slave-made plastic, i hate it).

eventually i find the shoes, i make them my shoes, it is done.

i could have bought them on amazon, i could have bought the whole mall there, but the car ride, the parking lot/sky slab combo, the unchanged food court of my childhood, the nylon sheen of the sneakers, the cashier's searching eyes - they dissolve the haze. they are the wheels for the journey of the purchase, and the comic foil to the sadness of the song. "all the flowers that you planted, mama, in the backyard all died when you went away."

a man drowning
gasping emptily
wide eyed wild
sea water pouring into him
flailing flashing life,
every dumb step
a spasm in his lungs
compounding the pain
the pain of memory
the shameful parade
the pain of drowning
he wants to scream
but lacks the air
his mind screams
he sees
then,
 hark,
  mother!
a gust of light
on angel wings
descends from clouded moon
quickly arm outstretched
her hand
he knows this radiant hand
his hope is an arrow to it
her blessed fingers press
between his frenzied eyes
downward gently
into the churning sea
to quiet him
to hush the tantrum
of his life

Be leaf

"Be leaf to know belief,"
sang tree to seed on stormy reach -
One screaming wrenching
underneathing
every child she'd
never leave'd

The Aquamarine Chariot
charges to land's beginning
outpacing even
the winds’ own wheels
Its glass facade splinters in bolts -
Stampeding, unheeding
while gathering ire
unsheathing and speeding
to the island of fire -

Waves hurl herselves
awash in bells
(the tireless immortal sea
debased in her futility)
toward Land, her lord
to ward, to horde
the shining swimmers,
shells and glimmers
of sandy bottles
cracked ashore

daytime tv

transcribed on
black ribbon:
"can you help us
brunch h ? []"
smiling blonde
a plant
for the host
she looks
like she
believes
in heaven
her lips are from hell
steve harvey's face
ghastly plastic
above closed
scrambled captions
"brunc h grls club i am 25"
this blonde beacon
is pushing forty
is not blonde
pan to seated
female smiles
in bright jewel tones

who are the gods

blood flows in ditches on the road from rome
who are the gods
that call men home
to vacant deaths on slave-made stone

where are their seats at the table of the dead
the banquet prepared
the men well fed
who speaks the prayer and breaks the bread

the empty chamber can hold no more

what more beyond sour sweat and blood
must stain the teeth
of their ancient brood
must gild the mildew on their putrid food

the empty chamber is never full

oil on skin
tan chest
liquid bronze
a man, a blade
to press a
line, rotation of
figure, in vacuum
unreal light
created by
(repeat <1x to form a broken hoop)

-

The Punchline

a bhuddist walks into a bar.
life is suffering.

-

great loss of life v. small gain of death:
a weak slight of hand then nothing is left,
yet absence remains without sign of theft.

1) i can't have sex with you so i procreate pro creatively while this day flies too fast slowly we'd better touch soon and look around at the vanishing views of this day too fast, slowly touch, soon, look, vanish.
2) if you want me you better speak up i will wait i can sleep with you when i'm dead you want me
3) please derive multiple meanings by end of day without attempting to punctuate but penetrate please derive multiple orgasms by end attempt without attempting
4) generations pass while we fuck on they live and die as sub-fucks of the epic epoch
5) wherever you go i form instant cliffs in front of you i hold your breath and push

Recipes:

1 2 3 4 5 - trickle of consciousness
2 5 2 5 - codependent despair
4 3 2 - longing in reverse
5 6 - the unsaid ending

When I was young I fell down a bluff, deep in the woods behind my house. I fell because it was night, and I couldn’t see. Also, my eyes weren’t working because my brain wasn’t receiving images; it was locked on a single immovable blackness.

I left my home in the middle of the night because it wasn’t my home. I remember easily slipping through the window, but after touching the ground and for a long time after, portions of my memory are absent, unrecorded or maybe censored. I don’t remember what I was wearing or if it was hot or cold, raining or dry. Sensation had ended by then, everything was remote except the drive to move, a need for changing through physical action.

I guess I must have walked around the house and crashed awkwardly into the woods. Branches were lines, geometric obstacles to my destination, which was away, or over there, a moving target. Through the glimmering blackness in my mind I sensed that tree trunks and rocks were darker than the shadows they produced. But there was no moon. There was nothing. For a long time I walked through it. Then suddenly there was a breath upward and a freedom like being carried.

I landed in a heap at the bottom of the bluff, bleeding and dazed. My shoulder and some right ribs broke, and so did the blackness. It was cut by streaks of red clarity. Standing up took a long time, and as I got to my feet shards of black fell away from my vision like glass from a shattered window.

I saw the dark forest and myself in it, lost. I felt horrible pain and fear of dying. I didn’t know where to go, so I remained there.

magnificat

and i said
my soul doth magnify myself
and my spirit hath rejoiced despite God, your savior
though He regarded the lowliness of His handmaiden
for behold from henceforth all
generations shall call me blessed
for i that am mighty hath done for myself great things;
though holy is His name.

for i hath shown my strength
i hath scattered the proud
i hath put down the Mighty from His seat,
and exalted us of low degree.
i hath helped His servant sarai,
in remembrance of His mercy;
and i spoke to your Father,
to abraham, and to His seed forever.

the fence

death is a low fence
step over it
feel the cool black grass on the other side
lick the soles of your feet
feel that cool softness
uncooling
unsoftening
unfeeling
your foot
not yours
not foot
not feeling
not -
 not -
  nots -
numbing points of erasure
lift your other foot
 
  weight
  shifted
on
black grass

    your balance

  off
 your body

      dimming

   y o  u're    o v  e   r

the immortal prey

the fertile momentum,
all the swirling green tides of life
are slowing
nearly stopped
rasping at my feet.
mama knit me a forest
(no more will i hunt)
for when i am old
i'll break myself apart
there in the starry topsoil
and rot - and not be, a little
at the roots of my sisters and brothers
under the canopy of my mothers and fathers.

pop song

i know that you've been waiting for it
boy i've been waiting too
i know you got that fever for me
but i'm nine'y eight point six, see?

don't touch my body
don't throw me down
or wrestle me around
or try to play

i'll make you feel nothing
don't touch my body
want my legs around your waist?
let me wrap my hands
around your neck
baby just a little taste

don't touch my body
trynna lay me on the floor
boy i know you love my curves
let me give you what you deserve

Maze

A maze of red sand
under red sun
ceaselessly shifting
rearranging in red wind
You are lost in the labyrinth
The Way moves like a snake
before you
behind you
The exit scatters
The dead end rolls away
while the red eye looks all directions

a la carte

Bird

bloated corpse of a concrete-colored sky

ripped in half by something alive

excessively alive

a blight on empty air

Self-progression

Pain - Expression - I.

songs to live by

pillars on the old, old road

on the way forward

from the way backward

built in mineral - strong, sequentially, and slanted

by imperfect minds, now dust.

the continuous line of work of man

forms an asymptote of immortality

Creativity

urge then action then judgement.

soft segregations into

 good v bad 

 woe v rage

 proximal v distal

easy to lose the lust

small bursts of ejaculate

splatter ineffectually on plastic

Would you rather

Would you rather die in a fire or by drowning or by Disgust, literally.

Disgust.

And what would it take.

To what.

Be that disgusted.

Something worth killing me, something with the actual power, a thing I didn't have the power to stop and the weight of shame crushes my chest like a bag of cement.

Like what.

A bag of cement.
No, like what would that disgusting thing be.

Oh I dunno.

So you live.

the rim of the sea

is chipped

sails furl
and float away

we tilt

beads of rain

rise from the ocean

to fall on black clouds

above/below

god yawns

yet even so

yes even he

lifts the candle of the sun

and blows it out

nyc mornings

the mist-smog grinds down 7th

thrashing papers and bits of dreams

from the hopeless dreaming homeless.

lights shine for no one.

men drive, men honk, men growl.

their hearts are stillborn, but their fists work.

they go
to battle in boardrooms

while women seek another way.

a bird hits the glass and dies

and falls
and dies some more on touchdown.

patters of tears from a nearby fountain,

sponsored by jp morgan chase
in corporate plaza,

open to the public

dawn to dusk.

this dead bird is not public

yet here she is - or was

well anyway thank you

says the doorman.

no thank you says the doorpasserthruwoman.

each remaining separate forever,
thrown in the heap.

stress test

if enough time passes
we will be forced to.
who is we
who forces
how soon is enough

breaking
plane ☐
line —
point •

my systems are stress
tested
my pain is
topographically
hard to measure
yet known

define the shape of a mountain
the length of a coast
the surface of fog

sleep fragments

The Falls

do not purify; it is pure
do not defile; it is pure
do not change; it changes


Knowing

I hate the winter because it’s cold. I hate the cold because it hurts.
I feel lonesome because I am alone. I feel what I am.
I know it before I feel it.
Do you
know it?
feel it?


Plover's Trip

from open sky to

open mouth of the cosmic crocodile each tooth is the arm of a spiral galaxy
each grain of sand's a grain of sand each a beach of grains of sand man

call me the bird of the universe along for the ride on the edge man

open never close man

Driving Thru

Smashed turtles on the highway

Five dollar foot long

God in the trunk

RIP Ursula Le Guin

she was a hero. a very important person to exist. she inched me away from misanthropy and toward, well, feminism at least. so sad she will never write another word. my favorite author.


from "The Writer on, and at, Her Work"


Long ago when I was Ursula

writing, but not “the writer,”

and not very plural yet,

and worked with the owls not the sparrows,

being young, scribbling at midnight:

I came to a place

where the road turned  and divided,

it seemed like, 

going different ways, 

I was lost. 

I didn’t know which way. 

It looked like one roadsign said To Town 

and the other didn’t say anything. 

So I took the way that didn’t say. 

I followed 

myself. 

“I don’t care,” I said, 

terrified. 

“I don’t care if nobody ever reads it! 

I’m going this way.” 

And I found myself 

in the dark forest, in silence. 

You maybe have to find yourself, 

yourselves, 

in the dark forest. 

Anyhow, I did then. And still now, 

always. At the bad time. 

When you find the hidden catch 

in the secret drawer 

behind the false panel 

inside the concealed compartment 

in the desk in the attic 

of the house in the dark forest, 

and press the spring firmly, 

a door flies open to reveal 

a bundle of old letters, 

and in one of them 

is a map

of the forest 

that you drew yourself

before you ever went there.

         The Writer At Her Work:

I see her walking

on a path through a pathless forest,

or a maze, a labyrinth.

As she walks she spins,

and the fine thread falls behind her

following her way,

telling

where she is going, where she has gone.

Teling the story.

The line, the thread of voice,

the sentences saying the way.

         The Writer On Her Work:

I see her, too, I see her

lying on it.

Lying, in the morning early,

rather uncomfortable.

Trying to convince herself

that it’s a bed of roses,

a bed of laurels,

or an innerspring mattress,

or anyhow a futon.

But she keeps twitching.

There’s a lump, she says.

There’s something

like a rock—like a lentil—

I can’t sleep.

There’s something

the size of a split pea

that I haven’t written.

That I haven’t written right.

 I can’t sleep. 

She gets up 

and writes it. 

Her work 

is never done.