cattle call to brain

by recognizing each mood 
starting in the middle
beginning, to me
the concentric quality
rising water
in a rush, i am
starting, finishing
maybe i am compelling myself to anxiety
even joy
especially despair
depart into image:
the first bare foot
to contact the stepping stone
in a garden, at night
i am whispering this
it helps, the image
a self-portrait? i couldn’t bear

reading has been soothing me
making me innocent, in repose, vulnerable
each complete image, another trip
on the cool path of stone

 

 

 

dad

there he is
my chest expands
talking to a group of men

when I walk up to him, he won’t be real
never right in front of me, always steps away

there is a desperate scream that comes out bound
i am listening to a child, dying
there is horror that the sound is coming out of my own mouth

and it is the sadness trying to kill me
it is the sadness saying that there will be a hole forever
that i will never understand what to do with it
to know where love ought to go

and tomorrow it will be gone

cortex

it is good for wind to work on something.
taking time. all things get smooth and small,
and all things want for caress.
sitting for hours, working it through with your fingers
until it is done and you’ve made something
a daisy chain, or a pair of shoes —
or, by pushing your thumbs away and hanging on
to the creases of something’s face
it’s not so much another face
as it is the properties have changed
and you might not remember something anymore
the author always said: the real umbilical cord to the past was eaten!
that means it’s in something’s stomach now.
can you imagine an umbilical cord with a prefrontal cortex? god.
for something to become tired, it must be worked down.
after mumbling, there is silence. the mind is setting.
if you are sleeping and something is talking to you,
you may mind or not, after all.

the infinitive

what is more maddening
than a curtain held with tape to a window?
each corner beginning to fall off
and i am stuck to watching!

let me hum in to the future; i find it thrilling —
instead of saying “I explode” you say “I will”
or place that thought out on a dock in the fog at dark: to explode 
infinitive/forever! oh my god
the thought brings tears to my eyes

even better
when a promise is delicate,
posed as a gentle truth
i seize it with a gasp – that’s me!

it sways in me
i might be sick
but i am better off knowing it was there all along
and i was just waiting for it to come to me, that’s all

as it goes humming above your head
there may be light in it, but no matter

someday, june will bear spores

it’s a cow-head thing in drawings but,
in pictures it looks like any organ
a red sack and tubes that glimmer wet under light

connected to one thing, or another
a part of something else; alone, nothing at all
is there something to it?

when this bag fills and bursts…
i’ve been there. i forget to yell, so angry at my mother, but,
the good screams come from you

sometimes we are afraid there’s
not enough to go around
what about if there’s no more ______ ?
what would all this be like without your sound?

take it from me
june, that’s what i learned the woman’s cry is

an inside a mother’s fear: do you pity me for doing it?