Saturday, September 19, 2015

the following night

I. Morning

Sometimes I see mushrooms in my dreams
large and nearly white as stones,
they speak silently of rain,

and I wake up.

II. Night-time

It rained today. Almost as if
my mushroom dream was a
movement of future/prediction,
clairvoyance or wish-made-truth.

What prescience told me that
my dream meant rain, I don't know.
Because dreams mean rarely more than
despair, a muggy unknowing and
the approach of latent wakefulness,
like a sound that reaches me.

I'm so uncertain, it's a jitter
in both sides of my cage.

III. The Following Night

I've been meaning all day to say:
that Phil is moving into a trailer
in the woods. He says more
or less that he may bloom
or just decay.

I can see him there with his french-
press and meticulous sandwiches.
He's such a wonderful cook. He is loving
with beets and greens, every
meal a last meal.

IV. Interjection

-I mean nothing by it- I am full
of love but it is a directionless tumult
gush, both rapid and rapids, leading
nowhere: I exist within a halo of spray
blue-green and luminous

tender riparian vortex, wide-open
and trap.

V. More Rain

More rain came today, with
a generosity, sudden thrashing
that I had always suspected
God reserved for love.

It is sad that it doesn't really matter.
The sticks are tossed: for
years, we'll read them every day
fire by fire.

But for me:
because I am bone and
also bouquet,
flesh and also flash-

nothing matters more.

In my state of marginal
illness, of marginal wellness,
nothing matters more

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

And all I can think of is the noise I might make when expressing physical pain

I see myself in you
in the way you are a smudge of light in a dark
space, strange lit-up bug hovering
beside the entrance of roaring

anomaly of energy

I read your poems and
I keep thinking that you’re talking about masturbating,
but I’m the one talking about masturbating

and the vision of a golden hand reaching up
through me as if searching for
keys on a hook

hanging from the roof
of my mouth

it still hovers like some drug
vapor, and all I can think of
is the noise I might make
when expressing physical

because I am groaning
beneath the heft
of this life

and I labor beneath the laboring
body, coral bones of
some ghost as they batter
against the oppression of
our strange and
stratified timelines-

Life lines
I’m going to have to tear whole
cliffs to
sand with my fingernails

I’m going to have to bottle sweat
and sell it to myself as a cure

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