I’m no longer certain
that the ground will hold.
I swallow biography whole,
life picked clean by gut flora.
In this instance,
we are but incidents.
This isn’t a test,
but a trap.
Clap once for yes,
twice for help.
Gaze thwarted by cold introspection,
What if the mind
is merely a function?
The reissue comes at first in waves
before tapering to a ripple.
One good pogrom
Have we a hunger worth keeping?
The reddest eye
contains such hideous sensations,
feels such fleshy images.
I walk new against the languor of sun.
Late November, always walking.
Against the nearness,
against life and limitless.
Limitless entangling, the frail despondent sun.
As I was speaking of a hunger,
somewhere a grayness overstepped.
There we were steeped in coldest rain.
What shot up, a pain
so big and mesmerizing,
it left me drooling transfixed but unfocused
and the the landscape cut to dirty ribbons.
We echoed down road,
through sickness and white.
By now, the hungers kept.
And we were set on losing.
Their laughter chases us.
The dark sings playfully,
a tune spun viciously
from suicide and from shame.
What’s the name of that tune again?
Though our blood burns,
though our bodies weep,
we keep pace without ceasing.
Though the lengths we run
seem to consume us,
we keep pace without ceasing.
The beating of our feet
batters and bruises the floor,
for we keep pace without ceasing.
And still, their laughter chases us,
We’re on the giving end of the spectrum.
You can tell by the way
my gaze unravels
that something interesting is in the works.
Garlands of pure light,
wintry lips and extremities,
a night composed strictly of blue notes.
Eternity leans in for a slow kiss.
Ultimately, whatever satisfaction we’re capable of
hinges on a deeper understanding
of the holiday machinery.
I’ve learned, perhaps too late,
how to keep myself at arm’s length.
Put some distance in the portrait.
The further down we delve,
the higher we become.
Going green never tasted this sweet.
Meet me in the middle
for some gut-wrenching fun.
Until the next revelation.
This isn’t the paradigm shift
that I signed up for.
Sitting up the whole night,
over-caffeinated and underfed,
we stretch our already tenuous positions
so thin they go translucent.
The air has the autumnal smell, you know?
Sometimes, all you need is a whisper.
Rumination does a body good.
I’m not necessarily proud
of what happened back there, but
I was so unsubstantial in the moment.
I’ve reached more than several breaking points by now.
Count this only with the left side of your brain.
Come to find that great personal trauma
was carrying us the entire time.
Lick it or ticket. Allow me to veto that for you.
Have enough guns and drum circles?
As if these predilections
were merely skin deep.
Something seen not to be seen,
the voice drying on the rocks
or our cold autumnal heritage,
verbiage of bone or loneliness
swimming against the crowd.
We, we are endowed
with a brightness not to be seen
through cluttered eyes, reprise the roles
that once we stumbled into
when emotions went uncategorized,
uncatalogued, and a single moment
occupied miles. We renew our smiles
by degrees, before heaving them,
sufficiently fat, into the hot cauldron of desire
to simmer slow and impart their savor.
Let us not waver in our daylong stride.
Let us glide freely over feral waters.
Let our love sharpen,
our will not darken,
as we pursue our urgent course.
The compulsion to disappear
For one burning instant,
the light comes undone, scatters is threads
from horizon to horizon.
We have these ashes, you see.
Something in her voice suggests a reticence.
What is concealed there?
Flowers, discarded, left to dry
by the path toward forgetting.
The vapors quickly fatten in the throat,
stinging the soft tissue,
Something in her touch suggests a reticence.
This testimony will be stricken
with plague or madness.
The cold breath of twilight
leaves all that I am
in so many words,
and I grow vaguer in the stillness.
Strike a postwar pose, and let
lavish light lubricate those curves.
One eye swerves to greet you,
the other stutters with delight.
Something tells me that we
might make delicious company,
slow explosions of touch
and delirious kisses.
I can’t decide which lovelorn
muscle misses you more. My,
how the body’s cravings
It is a question made of sand.
And what it asks for is the hand
which feeds the answer.
So we have identified the cancer
blooming in the mid-range states,
cancer of the voice, cancer of the mind.
We’ve located ourselves within,
but what more is there to find?
A scrap of paper, crudely lined,
marked with cautious scribble,
words for nothing and for silence.
A scrap abandoned to a manic breeze,
blowing in all directions.
Though we pursue it, our legs are in collapse,
and we fall in heaps about the sand,
the sand which forms a question.
All eyes on the grift,
gaining minute by minute.
This is simply foreplay.
The kids these days,
they’re so misty, so unrestricted.
Repress these faculties by numbers,
by worries, by rage.
A curious, most dissonant age
looms beyond the city’s shadow.
Seems our wiry mouths
are due for a straightening.
Lest we swerve
too far from the mainstream,
lest we dream too hard
or step too light.
Some fresh attire
or new skin, perhaps,
for the rabid days ahead.