Monday, June 18, 2012
Monday, June 11, 2012
Asylum
In so many words
you live up to your name.
Contrary lines border the heart
of this darkening discovered dusk.
And what, if I’m to blame you,
should I pack for the road?
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Beginning with a line from Leonard Cohen
From this
broken hill
there was made a choice.
You’ve spilled chilled spirits
onto the dirt inferno
that’s built around me for years.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Saklas
Sing, fool, sing to me,
the shadow of the centrifugal
serpent. Angel to angel,
faceless face to form
and space, come with the fire
to swing the sphere into focus.
If in our song, you’ll permit
a field to crumble into weeds,
may the oil burn at midnight
as well as at the bloody sunrise.
By then, our shirts will be dry
and the cities will call to us
in shipless drowning gestures.
They’ll know then the fixtures
were never fixed nor stern.
Your motion is your negative
gorgeous twin vision of night.
For me, the moon unhinges
on the brink of demonic dispute,
something for my six lost sons
to pull towards their barren chests.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
You Know My Name In Secret
You know my name in secret. Upon the mountain,
you called as a single dove; above all else; all
burnt
with flares in your feathers. Spare my eyes, I
cried,
but don’t let me look away. The blossoming clouds
sent you away. Your voice echoed through the rocks,
and my short tale ended in fear, a wretching cough
for the time in the gaping, crumbling sediment.
Then a demon shook me from sleep, his eyes
red and human, his body in the armadillo’s
shape, crawling towards me with a deafening hiss.
Almost a voice, I yelped awake and ran to check
the locks. The dead meat of the fridge was gone
by morning after I fed the hounds and sucked
down alprazolam as if that will halt a vision.
A new bird crept on the branch when sunrise
came, but I refused to look. Leaving the door
unlocked, I jumped the train with unholy wine,
hiding in a corridor deciding what crumbles:
buildings or atmospheres? Who are you?
I hear a smoking voice pawing at the door,
as if my own baptism would bring quenching
fire that no one but my fellow passengers
could see. Come near, bring water to worship,
whiskey to emulsify the acids in your knees.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Cage
body is a
cage and so it’s so
that all who descend to earth
find a speck of diamond
in their dusted arms
body is a
crevice for
the eye that does not see
but knows where to be shut
to wait for the speechless All
Pneumatic Sandcastle
Thrill in exalts: a child climbs on the curving
statue.
Upon the urns of the sand, a kite birds away
from the crowd’s hands. Mother Sophia smiles
at the paperbacks burning in the sun along rocks.
Blister, spirit. Call my legs to your front door,
towards the shipwrecks of passed sins and say,
“Take this, some of you, and know it. This is my
breath, which is flowing for all of you today.”
All Steps Towards a Spiral Path
Of a ladder that descends
into
a Musikal book
is bound to the Sea that pulls me
Generated into the flight of blue jays
What great appointment for the age
Torn and
green they
play with
themselves
while their apostles
push for an undefined hierarchy
of pain O
sister of the Wise
tired slurps of the Euphrates
I give time to you, in time
Fractured Hymn, #1
The shadow, Samael,
loomed over my mirror
and sought
my loins for replacement
I guzzled glasses
of the beast
It was then these
scriptures emanated
into a sophic prison:
“Obscured Apnoia,
steer clear of darkness,
find self-generated Words
so that the Paraklete
my penetrate us,
reach for us within
whatever Chaos
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Flood
the flatfaced apocalypse sneaks upon our heroes
while they eat a modest meal of figs and club soda
flood, lake Michigan, bring the bay to a stop
and see your threadbare crowds at a standstill
the test has to be bodies drained patients
a kind of sample group that gives thought
less blood and we are still right here
waiting to be fed any sort of process meat
then no love is empty no touch is meaning
less no kiss is left without a true smell
right but look at the hemispheres there’s
a way to see yourself alone with stars
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Earth Forms
Good, he says, to be
here with you all
tonight I’m
here to discuss
hieroglyphics
with you dogs
often see signs
in the grass
circular they
describe them
with cries of
derisive talk
explosively
selling nighttime
sonatas hark
to loving stones
to altered tracks
to destruct but
there is not one
of you who don’t
also feel shrine
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
Winter canon
the wolf is my painting
the wolf makes my accusations
the wolf makes my midday meal
the wolf cleans my bedroom
the wolf lights my gnostic candle
the wolf crumbles my affect
the wolf crushes my mandolin
the wolf builds my empty parlor
the wolf counts my half-hours
the wolf dreams of my couch
the wolf burns my kitchen
the wolf hosts my fish frys
the wolf holds my teeth in a cup
the wolf asks about American sadness
the wolf prints my ticket to Peru
the wolf shines my filmy moonlight
the wolf stages a mocked march
the wolf eats my apple in the field
the wolf bums my smokes to strangers
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
there it was not
There was a painting in the room I woke up in. A guest was just leaving but I didn’t follow them. I licked the wall and then realism went out the window.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Monday, April 9, 2012
an antifesto
Not attempted this in awhile, and my awareness of the internet's illimitable expansion and mixture of timespace leaves me at the mercy of unforeseen consequences. Writing is the distance between repulsion and compulsion, a cry from the throat and pared calculation of affect. The tension for the writer is the balancing act of freedom and constraint. Spirits wane, forms appear, power drains and regenerates.
So, perhaps this blog is an exercise in drains and regeneration. Studies in dissociation, you might call them. Whether poem, prose, photograph, aphorism, all trails between the real and unreal--now a shifting architecture for all to see.
This is an antifesto. Not a series of thoughts or artifacts, but the acute collision between object, sense, word, and the continuum of action between them.
If a voice, then a company of shifting presences and absences.
If a presence, then an unwilling misrepresentation. Who's there?
If an absence, then a vision of presence. Who's not there?
And who should be?
So, perhaps this blog is an exercise in drains and regeneration. Studies in dissociation, you might call them. Whether poem, prose, photograph, aphorism, all trails between the real and unreal--now a shifting architecture for all to see.
This is an antifesto. Not a series of thoughts or artifacts, but the acute collision between object, sense, word, and the continuum of action between them.
If a voice, then a company of shifting presences and absences.
If a presence, then an unwilling misrepresentation. Who's there?
If an absence, then a vision of presence. Who's not there?
And who should be?
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