Welcome to the month of my 100th poem since starting this website. My heart! My soul! Or something like that, it's chill.
My favorite here is 07, The future.
The numbers are numbers, not dates.
13 — paper cliffs
white
sick blue rakes
and tears
on earth we pass
time
boots to the
paper cliffs
12 — Domestic
You let the pan smoke
to hold my gaze.
Stop. Again.
You let the pan smoke
to hold my gaze.
Stop. Expand.
The teflon flakes pungent,
wailing something
furious. Living silk curls
ankles first around me,
split tongue
and a seductive contagion.
When I wake on your shoulder,
I stretch my new stitching.
You ask if I'm hungry.
I was once asked what love
it could be I'm still looking for.
A rich man wants
a thousand things.
I have no other answer.
11 — spectral
ears ringing?..................................they do that
..............................clamp your hands and tap
what i need i've lost to........................lost too
base like soap................shedding rain and
rolling under wild grasses........................you
........can tell the invasive by the wide leaf
breaking the spectral..........so green they
spot yellow.............................with eyes to see
............it's said children are closest to god
10 — Salt
Marked by an indigo
smoke, we hardly
notice we're cold. In every
life but this one, I'm this rain
in the faults of this concrete.
This rain. This concrete. One
with the indigo smoke.
Nothing really but salt.
Nothing really. Salt.
09 — let me be water
Animal: animals. Plasma bound
for the dirt. Lord, let me be water.
Worked around bone, splitting
bedrock with freeze.
Without trust there's
still the river, the raven. In spring,
the hushed knit of alders
and lindens and oaks. All this life
skipped right over by the satellites.
Scrambled by all the green.
08 — bleary
grasses matted under
heavy water makes
nothing of me a touch
a touch a touch we
scream careening
arched with the polar
force gnawing stone
take my hand take my
seams in the floor click
click your body refracts
on the wall as our
small sun swings
07 — The future
I watch the construction
of you. Collected as sand.
The smoothing of a wing,
the tapering of radiant
heat in the General Ether.
Between us, a density
of certain sameness -
skin, blood, stock suspicion.
The future is a cobalt sky.
Big and too good,
we're sure of it.
We prod the specimen
and make our notations.
Date, time, weight,
change in appearance
if material.
06 — Waiting
In the vacuous space,
the smell of a tilled
and watered earth.
A hard wind plucks
and drops me with the tufted
candy plants in perfect rows.
Thank god for memory, for faith.
Grooved and shining.
An obedience, ash and seed.
An ear to the glass, to the wall.
05 — Noted
Long light shades
the clockwork beating.
Far fall underfoot.
The pond a steady ember,
blinking and cloudless.
I hurry, some.
I hope for rain, aloud,
and my hope is noted.
04 — constants
the rod iron strains
under all-weather paint
boxspring machine
tracking shallow
breath / the road over some
from here bubbles three-
bar chunks of a top 100 /
syntactic gaps strung
like the telephone wire
braided in sixes then fives /
in a world running low on
constants our mother ever
knits and knots over
the still water where
man would crash
with two boots
03 — An Intelligence
I am the wheel and its spokes,
stitched with a riven
aquamarine,
trembling in the young
dawn. One of many dawns.
A rank and file thumbing unstuck
silicone masks. Tossed
on the pile. Keep your day-glo
wattage, your spark and flash.
Ask, and I'll answer.
All I need lolls many
circles in the dark earth, great
blades laboring
furiously against time.
Pleasures, all: a good laugh,
a whole tray of ice, simple cotton.
We live on, an intelligence.
02 — Petals
The cold follows me on its knees.
I notice after a while. Welcome,
my friend, you bright hunger.
My heart is a handful
of brass I've written off.
Mouths to feed. And so on.
Everything with wings breaks
that handful of brass.
Everything with eyes.
Sometimes you don't even
read the whole thing - no
need. My god, take my
hand. The trees are
trading their blossoms
for green. Pushing
petals to fly
which fall to the dirt.
01 — Here we abide by a glutted pink
The rivers of my days now
a rush of steel. A few hundred
tires from the faucet, going
nowhere fast. I am going
nowhere fast. Here we abide
by a glutted pink, the providence
of a new spring. Eyes closed under
glass water. Together we find
stillness by reaching
and reaching.