Thursday, February 16, 2017

an accident with teeth

I bit through the apple
I bit through the dough
I bit through my finger
I bit through your faces
I bit through your names
I bit through your demographic
your condemnations
your sounds in the moment
I bit through all of you
 and all of me
again and again
finding the gold purity
of discovery
and escape
flooding my self
with my self
to endure the birthing
of life and death, of no longer anthropomorphizing
my own heartbeat
but saying
Oh
I bite
have bitten
will bite
louder than the bark
of 30 years
long enough sense for saplings to grow strong
but they have no memory of planting
no sense of past
fragility
they won't
want
old birds
I will nest
in the branches you have dropped
in my awn
awld
twigs
I'll nest
I'll cuckoo
replace myself
with myself
I'll be
at the end
the egg
the root
I never
could

cood

c

All the winds that blow
can't shake my hand
from my trunk
can't rattle

all the birds

from my branches

all the rains

can't cry

my last
 leaf

I'll shimmer and sigh
a song of asteroids
 barren then bejeweled
then barren again

I'll reach to each of you
in turn
and prime
and offer

into eternity
a promise

of a new leaf

I'll cry

for all the flowers
unbeed

let's

make honey

to the sunshine

to the final day

I'll bite you

and the milky way

I'll swallow

with every star

your name

because you said

yes

Wednesday, February 8, 2017

10 attacks on truth

With my eyes closed and right palm pressed to my brow and bridge of my nose
there is a double negative
to let the light in
from other days
those days though what are they, haven't they traveled as long as I 
aren't we companions, all these days
why should they float wraithlike above me
or haunt behind or beckon ahead
why are we not infinitely deep
together
I have never remembered any light
it must stop with me
I must be the end of all light
the horizon of events
I pass through
I have never been any 
but death
and dying
how should I distinguish
the death of moments
from the death of all

All our revelations
are of those truths we tell ourselves in mudra repetition
wringing our hands
while other stories move our tongues
what poetry turns out our digestion
what song reveals our flaming dragon disease
breathing fire from colon to comma
destroying the towers 
my build of bricks
until I speak your truth
because it is no different
until I reach 
without permission
into your heart
blood salvation
each pursuit each obsession each turn of a page each new mouth
kisses and forgets
sucks itself
wishes for other words
the world we inhabit is so small
and the edges 
are poems
blake and beckett both found truth
in shit
the undigested flower 
is not worth praise
when I regret 
it is not missed action
but lost attention
that a particular shape of pouted lip 
or sigh 
was not forever watched
impossibly 
and regret of the impossible
is not regret at all
but resentment
what else is memory 
but returned mail
so the poems continue
with birds or windows, with the unnamed you, with the battlecry of longing, with lies on lies
I have no singularity
no window to a sole thing
no illusion
but desire
desire
a hungry ghost
a phantom pain
a scar fading
a falling drop of venom
my watchword is "no"
and love has come out of it
I am so sure death will not come for me
that I wait 
whole seconds 
to devour my love



Monday, August 22, 2016

Loss as lunch

Old slick slice of turkey
No bread
No mustard
You will nourish me
When you are gone
And I'll remember eating
Without you
You
When next I have bread
Even a dead dog
Can be missed fondly
Never: if only
Only: never again
It's  ruff
But we lose
Things
Each other included
And if we find ourselves
In the kitchen
We eat


Friday, August 12, 2016

ITEM: considering upping game on practice

On sparse occasion I acknowledge the intent of this blog, as enshrined in its subtitle
"writing practiced"
and lately after some lapse I've again practiced at writing with regularity
but I'm maybe up to pushing myself to practice structure. Which gives me fits and I loathe.
So maybe very very short essays at a 2nd grade level will appear here soon amidst the offal poems.


Thursday, August 11, 2016

One more restless before bed

Trees not trees dark mountain cloud
Lumbering under grey
Sky not sky
Always demanding specificity
Surrounded by blur and glare
The sharpest thing
Is my mosquito bite
And it's always been the same mosquito
Foot my foot
Purple cracked
The story goes
Was one mosquito
Not my story
Nor my foot
Not my body
Then or now
But we repeat the same
I repeat until my history is biblical
The mosquito my snake
The first bite
Gave all knowledge
All these years
And every mosquito
Was one mosquito
Trying to tell me
The world is blood
And pain

I have stared and studied love
Squinted and marveled and made all my focus the little elements and large motions 
Of 
But in my memory
All eyes
All feet
All kisses
Burn one flame
Melt to one
Grotesque amorphous body barely seen
A waxing monster in the shadows 
Thighs
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 shade