Thursday, September 27, 2012
Saturday, August 6, 2011
over bushes and fences, observe your behaviors as if they were birds, and you, the birdwatcher.
generous amounts of time sits with you on that stoop, trucks pass, bikers, vans full of gardeners to their next assignment.
a sound of daytime in the suburbs is a miser's foot, a flower.
fistful of coins, fistfuls of flour, a mouth in the foot, an egg in the brain.
the shape of a tree-branch, caught up in flames.
- blankets of flesh stitched together with needles and blood.
- a soup kitchen that weeps tears like an onion.
Monday, May 30, 2011
the feel of that back point
of the skull, resting between ears
that can't hear
and directly opposite eyse that close too much
the piercing of the head to the
floor, heavy, like a dynamite egg,
like a broken machine, total stillness.
It says, kill, kill, kill.
And the backpoint sketched smoothly
from a thousand strokes of the artist's
pencil, that is the murder, too.
All falls to the floor, is broken.
Already rested, the skull finally dies, is free.
On the last day, there was a last meal. The last bread, the last tears. Departure from this life forever- a white drifting noise, a great wave of silence.
The table is set. White cloth of course, John's drifting cloak. The candles burn with vehemence borne from desperate survival,the last of a dying breed. Bread, warm and soft, every few feet, their tops etched in paradisic perfection. Flowers bloom, the cloth is clean. Soon they will be serving.
The whisper grows louder. It is the call to the end. It pulls while it weighs, like Death upon your chest, beckons you. The blueberries, scattered just so on this saintlike cloth, turn to stone, smoothened pebbles. Let me tell you how one becomes a saint. First it builds up in your heart, truly from a whisper to an uncontrollable rage - but never escapes. One must hold it in for an entire mortal life, and therein at the moment of reckoning perform that guiless art - the exhale, letting go of that breath and with it everything - the universe, which can no longer be divorced from itself. Such is the path to canonization - a tricky art, indeed.
The table requires attention. Yes, the moment when life turns to stone, what then? A feathered platter is set upon you from the gentlest of hands. Its beauty, in which it surely holds your happiness, oh and your terror, when you realize the bird has been plucked from your own feathers, that it wears your plumage upon its lifeless eyes!
The loudness, long anticipated, does not come. Softly you cry, "ah, little mother! I am dying..."
A vision that seizes you - and is gone.
Monday, December 14, 2009
when i am happy i have little to write.
i woke up laughing.
i woke up with a dream of greatness
in my lungs you stuck like tar
i cried laughing and died trying
i pounded my fist against the wall.
language what is language?
the compounding of words;
the mold to the clay
like the shape of a shoe to a foot.
as you can see i took notes.
i wrote down everything i saw
i wrote down gibberish
i even drew pictures.
What does it mean?
maybe, it will mean more to you than it does to me.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
50 state street apt. 1
12 in the morning, first draft in a long time.
This typing on a sheet of almost-white paper, late at night when one has time to think, is good for
The therapy of this night time, of this gray time….when there is not a place to put the past in the past, when there is only now and no future, when you realize you are really living, oh but how is that so
Peaches period a spot on the paper neat dots elegant font THAT font that RIGHT font on labels on brandnames on handmaidens and tales of peanut butter and mango trees.
Exotic names food for thought elahe oh elahe oh oh oh seena three e’s a oh no a vowel three pieces three pounds of food blood three pounds of flesh owed owned by another.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
You used it. Spewed it like venom, so ripe with the possibilities just discovered. The stale food smell, the ripeness of smell. It all came through, balled up in snow and rolled down the hill, came at me. The anger, the frustration, even the irritating smell of food lingering from the next room, you brought it all to me and threw the slop bucket in my face. I was glad, I could take it, but I knew you couldn’t- so I did. Oh the moon, do not weep from the heart of your icy surfaces, the fingertip pressure that is applied for that perfect sound; that sound that is akin to twinkling lights blurred in the distance, they turn into willows, willows of the wisp, they are bringing you into the darkness, that you don’t know and aren’t thinking of, you follow them, and in this tunnel of light you faintly sense foreboding, but your conscious is sleeping, you continue, the little lights say, you don’t have to be afraid…you follow you follow, but you know that if you don’t open your eyes eventually, something bad will befall you, a still soul ready as prey, for the darkness, for the unknown.