I’ll send daisiesbecause they’re already dead,bias cut for a fewlast capillary pullsof aspirin-tinged water –soon to cataract, milkyin a leadcrystalvase. These are no “love me’s” or“Love me nots”.These are from he who knowsnot love, but beauty – decay. My darling little Aster,this is the day of your death,another year counted,backward from a birth,as each petal […]
I dream houses.I dream small roomsbehind small doorsin which small wardrobeslead nowhere but trappingsof our mangled time –of yours and mine. I dream chimney fires,tongues between wallsand curtains hung like tar.We were never longin the vapors, strangers yes,but a lope of gray shoulderand a turning was you, I am sure,everturning and blue. I find you […]
I saw a picture of you today,that crow’s foot smile, your eyesblue behind wisps of bang,arm around his shoulder,same old still,and I felt nothing. But then again,I was small fish to fry,and you laughed and said no,you are a whale and went awaythat Tiananmen spring. And there was fear in your voice,strung out, evacuated, long […]
In this winter called Leviathan,gorged be the meddles of menlurched there, rustbound in iceand enzyme. And all that arcs over, whetherthe crust limbed trees, or the whitetresses of sleet pinged on our heads,mocks like a maul. Roused and thus cursed by the makersof beasts and things craving anvilsand the nails of undoing, undoing,undoing us all. […]
What can I say?I was a bad sunrise,quick scudded to cloudand withholding. Look at it this way,it was a great dayfor pictures,unshadowed,no hotspotsto burn awayin a dance. We were a functionreally, a shallowangle of incidence,a glancing blow,mathematic,not prismatic,no split beam,just one garishmorning thing, and a slowovercasttrundleto a setting. Image: Ryoji Iwata on Unsplash
I can smell my own pits,my night sweats,sucked up in my weekunwashed robe. I am disgusted. And yet, there,in the garment bags,lingered in your suits,your suits I brought homefrom your funeralin the sands so long far gone,remains these sameand bitter musks. And there, in the bags,the pastes of rose wallpapers,struggled up but aligned remain. And […]
The roads here,rum tongued, black toothedand pitted, lead somewhere. I am sure that over the peak of it,splayed out like toes in dry sand,tractioned for tide, a florescence,maybe, maybe down in the abalone towns,the oyster shot towns – in The Mother of Pearl,where I met a guy,a guy named Reason,slim fingered and wrungout at last […]
