26.1.09

WHAT/WHAT/SORRY I THOUGHT I HEARD YOU SAY SOMETHING JUST NOW

And you just missed Him, though you didn’t miss 
much – He limps now, cataracts, a pockmarked 

complexion that smacks of lupus, though He 
would never admit - and belligerent

He held His hand over my hair, He said 

girl/go now/affect your dying stance
go writhing/go of breastpile rising
go/suck stomach sinews into braids
go rope the hangings/ throw your throat/i 
hammer you/i spine scale with my steel. 

He limps now, though still drapes the citrine silks 
and wears the scent of orchid at His wrists. 

He set before me ripened fruits to slice 
He asked the knife for slits it would not give. 

LOSS IS RELATIVE/THE RAIN ARRIVES

Homeric rosy fingered dawn draws her curtain to departure. Leaves that swept up autumn stick to winter. The soil shackle, i say to it: stay soil, stay, say it is not so, stay close, encircle the water until we have outthought one another. With the departure arrives rain and when we tilt our heads the right way we may envision the straight path of the sine waves the sky makes. i offered my body to the markings of a man’s mouth, he belted my sweat on his leather. stay a while, say i had it coming as i said and so sawed the littlest limbs from the promise of tree to prevent the growing of grove, and so saw the country change direction as a waltz enveloped a white gown on a dark woman, and so saw the country pull her fingers through water to trace the departure.

A TAXONOMY OF LONELY SOCKS BEGINS HERE/THE FIRST OF WHICH IS MY FATHER

Törless fondles the Kant volume, the weight of it good, amassing the excesses to the cheek, accounting for the flesh in the mass. Black and white make good, sit good and quiet, when the inhale-exhale metronome marks the time lurch. The favoured crayon was cobalt, and yesterday the most livid sunset, raging blush, a black river, a house hung with paintings i hate, paintings i painted. She learns to avoid a certain room, wears the wrong shoes, drapes the body’s heavy blush to carefully avoid a white, waiting for the heat to change. She learns to bury the face with blankets, and in the heat lost many socks. She learns to bite her tongue baretoothing the signature forge. She learns to ignore the too much flourish in the wrist flick of another woman’s autograph.

24.1.09

WITH AN AND

not asking for but clinging to the counter, emerald granite and sink-footed, still shoed, how easy and how, how easy as i am always with, always an and, and always wanting when.  not asking pulls back the high scalp, sweating and so much hitting, and when. not asking but gets it, what the deserving was coming to, when the word and its coming from was not meant, meant only as means to end, when from emerald to granite i am easily carried. when the chair where no one sits is hot, the sink has been footed with a sharp-heeled shoe, when

not asking asks woman to press herself into the shape of a dog, when she is not asked but is stuffed into the shape of a dog.  when little bottles that keep Kittens, Kittens keep - yet i have yet to see Kitten that did not plump into Cat.  the bottling stops it, the catting-up, so stays Kitten, the bottling means to end, the bottling Kitten ended, how easily Kitten is carried in bottling, with an and and not asking carries his Kitten, stuffs his woman into emerald.

18.1.09

BREATH IN WEIGHT

breath cradles the task of cradling and in calling out where lies the chord of calling out weight sleep assumes dawn does not somnambulist pockets the closeness of the blanket, surrounds the sick shape with swollen leather stolen shoes when light gilds the leaves leaves clutch the gold vine and climbs the eaves i lose the weight i gain my task climbing the calling in the smell the lingering warmth of stolen weight.

FINALE

in this garden scraped the riding boots of earth where shadow marks movement where water upsets the holy walls holy be the grey caned man and his woman slipping between the peal of bells the jump cut and now the death scene the elegy the mouth of a man in forward kiss to mack the knife and tongue the waters with the light of going out, a light going out, electricity turns the thought.

POLLY

in sleep surrounded blankets lump in throat makes body little more than lump. the right way the third time twice failed before somewhere stars, night leaked the window (for i assume there was window the room) the throat made swallow it little lump yes i think i understand you lean windpipe rattle rough effusions and rough cartography that forearm that ached so long. that the hand lost feeling, that there is no sweet in ache, no pleasure in the final plea. that ache is always sharp and to abate it small distractions in cigarettes, lovers, photographs that don’t last long do they. how do i? where is courage in the losing struggle the sad refusal to sleep a room with window yes i think i understand you.

8.1.09

HARP IS HAIR FOR HANDS

harp is hair
for hands
harphold
contrapuntal: parchment
make marble my
waning halfhaired

harp-
ist’s hands
prypart peeling
makes pink
in hair i
fist first i

marble my waning
peel my pink
in floor, floor
comes cold in crushing
cheek, keep in
picture my halfharp

for i
number each hair
before i
pluck

i carve
each meat
before
i

palm i
halt the hand
at harp

for words
palmed, wounds
hold it.

omit the “O”
because i
hold it: 

there
in
Mourning, there
in
Holding.