Tuesday, May 9, 2017

I took a step and thought
   "Not bad"
I liked to revisit them
I'd bring them to the park
      To see who noticed
Did I ever love you
If that one day
You wouldn't take my calls
                       I've since had each again
Of our conversations
      Many times
They play out
                          The same
But my opinions
At any rate
                     If you saw that one step
You'd know me
                                                                  As I do
I'd take it again

On the day your sister died
And in the park with the swans
And in bed after
                     I'd have that step to count on

And not press you
                Unless  you liked that step

But how can one be sure
I'll take it again
Is it ours
                To 2 too tw
         Won't you


Old notes for a sonnet

have stared and studied love
Squinted and marveled and made all my focus the little elements and large motions 
But in my memory*
All eyes
All feet
All kisses
Burn one flame*

Melt in the flame of my memory to one

Grotesque amorphous body barely seen
A waxing monster in the shadows 
Where lips are looked for 
Or a laugh
When the back of the neck is sought 
No hair
Until hair is conjured
No hand to hold
But a hundred hands together
When hand is spoken
Despite my memory
I long for you
Ever surprising comfort
Refuge from the haunting
Of your *own shade


                    have make keep name become create hold
no other                    

because                             all the time
                   there were         no more
                   then every
                     day new gods
                    announcing themselves
and enough
         was enough


our gods are our own
       we  are

we all were slave-kings
we all have killed

     we shout                            to god
                                          from        god
                                              each other

         no                               make gods of me!

the Last Surviving Graffiti of Alexandria

Dear most of you. I hate you. Shut the fuck up. I resent you. You don't deserve success.
You can already survive. Beyond that you're just shoring up insecurity. Fucking make some room. But no. You won't. Your tiny success is why we all fail. I'll eat you. Before I die. In a perfect world. You'll burn. In this world I'd be caught too. I'll burn too. I burn now, just thinking it.
  I leave you alone.
I love you though. Some of you sometimes. And want to kiss your hair. Because I like your little moan. That time you appreciate a moment. The rest of the room let it go. But I shuddered. And wondered if it's the same moan as in private pleasures. Which I'd like to offer. But then. I'll have too much. Of you. Of life. I'll hold it. I'll need to burn. You'll burn me. Or need me. And I'll want to offer. So I'll grasp. For us. And they'll burn me.
     I leave you alone.
I'll sit. And think of you. Think of me. Of them. Fucking and burning. Hate and love. I'll wait. Until the moment after wanting. Until the other fire.
Have you heard me moan? Enjoying a moment? Did you hate me then? Or imagine me under you? What fire do you have for me? What fuel? What air? And where is it written?
I am without ink. You without pen. They without me. We print our own words. No one reads them.
I'll burn my own library. Twice. And bury it. The smoke will carry me.
There is no sense in it.
My books were not much.

Monday, May 8, 2017

"Unsung" (layout incorrect on mobile page version)

                   "I am not loved"
Each night 
                  "I am not loved"
                  "I am not loved"
 in sol                                      ace    at              Sol, Ace, I, 1, beginnings
                 "I am not loved"
 burning                                                                      light in dark 
                "I am not loved"
 but not                                   announced                       sound 
                   "I am not loved"
 lest it be 
                " I am not loved"

                                             Those things which are silent
                                                  are most true
                                              In the null set
                                                 They shall be uncalculated


Thursday, March 16, 2017

dissidents in the house of plenty

That we are dissidents in the house of plenty
That we lacked something and our eyes were opened
That seeing, we surrendered
or surrendered something
Or of the world or of ourselves
Or yielded a desire
That we might keep room for seeing
But not enough
Never enough
Hungering makes us mad;
Wanting, resentful;
Having, guilty;
That the keepers should hold out to us an apple
Who have taken our horns
With promises of protection
They can not keep
We smell their sweat, see their eyes dilated
We are animals as they
They as we
We know their fear
as ours
But not what to do with it
Or ours
So we tear at ourselves
that Sometimes
In the night
And we deny each other small things
Certain names;
Each other first
Then ourselves
that We sneak some nights
To the larder
For a forbidden snack
A ham sandwich
Or a coca cola
Hide the evidence
Dream of bottled blood
that We curl sometimes
At the windowsill
Remembering when they could be opened
Or were those stories
Or also dreams
We wait for the house to fall
Promising ourselves we will laugh in the cold night
Promising each other stars
And forgiveness that can not be given now
Not here
Not to those who like us

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

envy and jealosy for art from the comfort of an unmade bed

their poems are elegant
mine clunky
those poems for allende
for hebron
for the wars between love and cruelty
these poems which circle like vultures
around a dead certainty
i have not traveled to see
the shrinking green
on the hills of jerusalem
i will not fight
but stay
immortal to my death
eating chocolate
thinking of sorrow
dreading cold