in me you are a secret
this phenom under a lyric wresting
profound to me and only a few we know
but once to words the words will live as they are meant
you is no matter of fact
scared to be holding on and out of control
i laugh big tears
the outside is asking for you to be
from a tense head, i must admit
you are meant to be expressed
what will contraction sound
born from me and pushed through my mind
washed up man
prick not a pocket full
when it looks like that
cold, slug wet
turning my eyes, it’s
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?
hope is a hole
the trim of that hole is a rope
a rope can hold, keep or contain
what’s known and oppositional
the perimeter of that hole is lips
where a mouth ends is not the mouth
any more at all
the hole is not what it was
and the hole is invisible, but how
hope is the consummate visual
where the whole is made of nothing
i find more peaceful to eat in silence
we had the answer long ago,
when the bed arrived.
harnessed between posts, the heavy sack of feather
made me dizzy that first night up off the ground
and i awakened often.
the ceiling called my attention now, and so close it appeared,
i thought more about my head, and where it went in darkness.
you slept further away,
curiously, willing to crawl farther,
in the morning to touch me.
with all that room, we realized what had always been there,
just waiting, empty,
and our dreams were not what they had been.
can i answer you?
the history of time is the dream.
the other side is full of breath,
this…pulse-music organizes into being,
and so coming out your mother
is emerging packless
to a valley without echo.
kneeling in the road, the prostrate thing
had a tail gently lifted
a bound pair of hooves
stuck from an eyelet
through a coarse web of lavender yolk
shaking, the steam from inside her
puffed onto my hands
she spooked and my pooling mouth
choked up, she urged to get off
to the ditch or beyond
for hours she complained high in her throat
and the thing had hardly moved
only at the shins now and pulsing
as she pushed
the knife was wrapped in old rags there
a clutch of bubbles
hung to the hairs of a dark burrow
a solid stem
bitten backward to
her soft, cored head
on evenings kicking
in a punctuated two-step;
dancing like her father
spun out of her cocoon
in blood on a yellow afternoon
with several futures always at once