Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Made a Life of Letting


True love
keeps falling out of the bed. Every time I’ve scraped the vertebrae
to kiss it
it is gone


like a nightmare meeting
morning.


How do I allude to a morning that happened quite
specifically in my own left
eyeball:


I used to say years ago
we’d make the love that would
crack
me
like
ice


-but the past is nobody-
-the past is a landless bastard-
the past is not
landed
and is no land at all.


I have made a life of finding my own
darkness unexceptional
I have made a life of letting men


I have made a life of letting men
slump on my breast


You should be ashamed of yourself.
(Shame is like mold, it is the bastard of nature.)



As if I did not possess my own
humble cuneiform,


I am going to hold him in my mind
and cut his arms off arm
by arm:


I will hold him in my mind
until lovingly I push him off
the deck.


At the marina, cover your
lap with microfleece:
Put the seat back. Like a child.
The cypress sways, and the light will lower
from brutal to gold.


Listen to the old song, the one where the girl says,
if you were a shepherd I could love you.


I would like to forget how you fell out of my bed.
(If you were a shepherd I could love you.)


I would like to forget the morning on that indifferent
cliff. (If you were a shepherd I could

I would like to forget

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Thinking about Preetom on a Tuesday Night


"I lift my skirt for the economy"


I.
When I am seen only
by the specific needle of light
emanating from Preetom:


I wonder


II.
Preetom is an alcoholic drag
and his body resembles something coughed up
by a muggy wave


when nobody was looking.


(I don’t mean how it looks
how it looks could fill the shelves
of dreams)


but how it moves when it denies
my wincing agency. I tried hard to cough
that tuneless
song of reason from my little cave.


It’s like that time he said
have you ever fucked a flower.


And I imagined a beauty
that could disappear age.
But he imagined a force
that could make him feel
something.


I wonder what Preetom is doing
right now. He is watching anime
I wonder
what kind of animal I am
through his cracked prism:


like, he put my foot in his mouth and
like, he did not listen to my brief
tuneless song of reason and like
I was waking and torqued beneath


and like.


And like I gave a
small coin that currency
and like.


Now Tuesday night does
its thing all over me.
I made my bed to lie
on it and think of Preetom.

Monday, August 3, 2015

Mine in the Dusk


Mine is a bog
near the coast
of a planet
at dusk


another planet
than this one which is verdant and saturated
in past


mine in the dusk is a
feminine body found resting
in a fen


(those spores have been in her mouth
16,000 years
sixteen thousand years)


mine is my
beloved wrapped in strips of polypore
mine was made tender by a spear
mine was made small by time


and those spores have been sleeping
on her teeth
for sixteen thousand years


mine lies beneath stratified
sphagnum moss,
dreaming vapor and mist:


her body is here in the bog but
her eyes are fixed on the tumbling
sea


and heavy
history is heavy on her chest
her skin is perfect beneath
peat,
her bones eviscerated


mine is flanked on both sides
by amanitas


phalloides unfurling
like clouds


know me,
know me,
never know me,
tired madrigals
throwing voices,
speaking in rounds
are all mine

Salt Point Memory

I tried so hard to explain, we were at Salt Point
, we watched the progression of those whales:
vanish and coast


and I tried so hard to explain I can’t remember what
I was trying to explain to Joe.
Tried to explain the law of the cold blue aether.
Maybe I was trying to explain: why I am this way or
how it happened: I don’t know. It doesn’t matter


but his long hair was long,
like honey,
his hood was up
and we hopped across the creek and then
we watched the whales.


And we slept in the crook of the long state’s elbow.


We slept in safety
in the sand
and we were all alone. We slept against a rock.


And we ate our breakfast leftovers with a pocket knife,
Joe feeding me cold biscuits and gravy in the car.


Clambered out to forage for hedgehogs and chanterelles,
we were on our knees and we were on our knees.


I tried so hard to explain
as we wound down the road toward our separate homes,
with cliffs on both sides,
and the sea on one side,
a strange inlet,


and farms on one side, such green pasture;
lovingly I tried to explain and


I think that I did well but I cannot recall


anything at all of what I said,
just the feeling of microfleece
and the ghost story,
and his hand on my thigh which I did not mind
and microfleece and
darkness spreading

like ink through the water of the air.

Untitled


My vanity is dominating me
I can almost see my body
as a person, I almost
cannot see it at all,

and I’m celebrating the
iron independence of my nightmares,
after years of lover gods
and lover fears.

In my dream last night we meandered
through irradiated township
to find a place
for basking
in our steam

in my dream we had a basket
of things to eat and
a chest beneath your shirt,
you featureless you-

Now lovingly I watch the bowing smoke bush,
fantasize that I walk away both
middle-fingers streaming,
like light for pilgrims.

Bless you darling, bless
every sacred fool.

And all the ones tragically
uninformed:

every Bronte drinking water
that ran between tombstones,
the spectres of brain-eating virus
in picturesque creek-

my future waits for me
patiently
it holds a fist of
pretty weeds,

a scar crossing its
pretty face,

and we are meant

for each other

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