feast of figs

feast of figs

ravens are rare here
I find when I fumble stumble across one
should I be so lucky
I fall onto my knees searching for
the stars, corvus!

I think of the greeks and babylonians
the hydras tail, the raven and adad
the story of apollo's raven
and the feast of figs,
the punishment
of being stuck in the sky, thirsty for all time.
the cost was high, I recoil.

I immediately search for headstones
marble carved eyes
cemeteries
that’s where the stars
live these days
onyx forms
perched and crooning over
named and muted pale stones
under storms of rusty steel wool.

cellar door

cellar door


1.

a bit like foreplay
the creaking hinges
charcoal drawn walls
lines of hips pressed
on its concrete floor.
soda pop of satisfaction
lime fizz hitting the back of
your tongue.

2.

opening chasm
unknown figure
tempestuous moon garden
a bud core
unraveling arousal by touch
orgasmic shades of white green emerging
conceived,
into childish colours
lemon poppy seed cake/ sour opium dream.



3.

the dark spill, silky at first
the coarser contrast
perfected only by
the sexes compatibility fitting just so.


4.

o, the permittable entry.

say it.
say it more.

fistful

fistful

this is not waste
this is not failure
this is not lazy
this is not
what it is not.
it is what it cannot
begin to claim
to name
because,
to know it-
is to
become
that other same.
there is no fame
that is real.
o, gets you to your destination;
where accolades take an inch
and every blame takes us only partway,
dropping us off, dead of night
at some seedy turnpike
with no one to call upon
we walk alone
swollen and bruised.
sloughing off our bark.
we're street fighting, still.
we are fists of potentiality,
of poems weeded,
actually.
smashed out teeth with their roots dangling
an electrical fire, graffiti orange,
speaking in tongues from birth on.
they are still
born.
the hypocritical
bureaucracies
making lumber
out of the numbers.
but we're fists of trees,
every ring, is
every marriage,
line after line
there is no escaping
what we are forever loyal to,
how can we leave, when it's-
how can we stay?
Where is there worth going,
beyond this fistful of rings,
goldening, goldening, us
like a fistful of summer ash.
where we are really
worth more than our
weightlessness,
and then some
against that hardening mass.

dreamscape

dreamscape


1.
how do you give back the gift of your reinvention? when the invention was somebody elses intentions. 'no thanks.. (it comes, frail as bird bones...) no thanks...' (hollow unfulfilled shells, crumpling like a tinfoil cloud aborting foreign yolk...)



2.
I found a crow who had fallen dead beside the road. wings still spread like a compass sure of its way.
it was laying over the gutter grate and the way the water moved around
the current of its black without sound, was a sign.
symbolic of what startles us out of that hazy sleep, of what we have not begun to touch on.
but somehow carry it in the backs of our minds,
without a discernable form.

3.
what is worse than crow death?
how rare and unjust...

to have in your hands, that drenched sour air
in that flight of death.

drained of colour; the vacancy of black marble eyes, lifelessly looking squarely into life.
just one last swell of wakeful breath...

I have a murder in my breast.
I have a murder waiting to soar
through this soreness.

 let me plummet,
let me dagger into earthbound air until I burst blood red
as a thousand, onto that field of jet black flowers.

honey/comb

honey/comb‎

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6/cross
sting/
anaphylactic shock/
the walls are your throat/
closing in/
on the words you're strangling to say/
the clinical tone/
is fevered flesh/
clammy skin/
petals wilting in/
the ooze of a neglected/
vase/
meant well/
1,2,3,4,5,6/cross
you're still here/
your voice a canvernous echoing/
no one hears/
1,2,3,4,5,6/cross
you said I do/
and he said it too/
1,2,3,4,5,6/cross
the silence is here, you greet it well now/
invite it in your door/
you lock the honey in the hive/

inaudible

inaudible

if only the hand
could keep pace with the mind;
it cannot.

I hold a pen
translating tough lines

it reneges
reneges

and falls behind like a fumbling drunk
following me home from a bar,

like a bereft dog tracing train tracks.

wires spill from their ears, everything becomes
untranslatable, inaudible files that keep looping.

I am their every mother/
they are my dead father.

without sense
I cannot run this yard,
or the next.

dust to dust

dust to dust

in the end
we will be some
eerie winter wood.
standing limbless, alone
in crooked rows.

this insistent curse/
moths flying to the cobbed light
of our thin and papery mouths,
screeching poetry
to whoever will listen!

heartland

heartland



in the deep arterial cracks
through the yellow green meadow

crystal water loudly rushes
in a facetted smash

carving through thick slides
of burnt orange clay bed.

the stink of decaying flesh, tufts of caramel fur
slipping down nude bones of wild deer that became trapped there

now molded into the land.

the water snaking through, hissing without pause

past root exposures and weighted puddles. you can hardly
help yourself from wanting to reach in

and massage the exposed heart here, like a cardiologist does
in an effort to revive,

the feeling of that soft gelatin smooth organ/
blubbery like whale skin.

its hot red/rhythmic muscle,
the obstacle course that sustains simple life.