10 minutes to tell you this

i will have lived
and i will be eaten

first, the corpus will play
a tumescent game

and letting go, disgracefully
sinking

beginning: going from innumerable junctions
unaware: losing half, and then quarter
bitten and sucked

not watching: pieces taken and used,
and i will energize something else: not watching

not to remember
not, new!

forward will mean
the need to break apart

time hot and bent to the outline of a decanter
the shape of me slowly exploding

 

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

 

 

 

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? 

 

condition

i could only tell them what i meant
if i
trusted the way my self looked in the other’s eyes

this is still true
coping, scrounging, what is the difference?
what is the difference between? i asked on every thing,
hung there on each thought
inside that steering quality of the tangent through the mirror behind the eyes
now and then poked at by the body’s attempt to quell the disjunct with sighs
or tears, perhaps, and then, for many, with a tepid anger
picture me thinking, that’s what i’m saying:

 
i was never 17, not anymore
or anything else, every day
and therein you feel you may be rising
here is the hump of the camel
you are old enough to find you are
getting hit and liking it
as long as there is pleasure in that

it is rather disgusting to be so singularly ripened
it is rather obvious and eyes care to puncture or steal such scenes of pliability
not cherish it

that is why the pasture is preferred by most
see there, no rabbit and no cricket
not a mention of the fragile turn of sex and the willingness and the bending down and the kneeling
what’s it like to be a cornered thing? on the fringe of being eaten
i watch it like watching the abandon with which a child cries
my eyes trusting the way terror looks in the child’s eyes

and pleasure comes strangely, pleasure comes
in the decorated space of difference
for the first time you saw it as the carcass with a spirit in it
the regalia of the novel thingness of every thing

we have lived here for a very long time

we have lived here for a long time

a black stroke arching in a frame
it was fixed, it was encompassed
all along, that anterior light
held by a nervous hand

by then
what is permanent and still?
all that pulled the curtain into after

mourning is only spent

succumb to the cataclysm of space
a womb in contraction
prepare to be undone and shown
at once

we have lived here for a very long time

hope is a hole

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

 

 

 

 

transformation

alone the planet appears, talking about its time
owed to succumbing to the pressure
of something around it which
it cannot point to, rightly, which it knows
only by what has been felt
in this sense, it is only at all
“…mourning has to do with yielding to an unwanted transformation…”
-Judith Butler