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

at last, at last

I grew up so grateful
to live free
at last
in the days beyond the end of
all the terrible things

I rejoiced to pray in ranks of the last
to have suffered

so lucky to know their stories
their struggles
before the sun dispersed
their final night

so lucky
to learn the songs
of the 60s
when hand in hand
so many rose
to lift me up

imagine! their smiles!
all our ancestors!
holding flowers,
blue bouquets,
 celebrating the dawn of this
eternal day

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
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
they won't
old birds
I will nest
in the branches you have dropped
in my awn
I'll nest
I'll cuckoo
replace myself
with myself
I'll be
at the end
the egg
the root
I never



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

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


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


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
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
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
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
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
Each other included
And if we find ourselves
In the kitchen
We eat