Trees, planets, rivers, time
know nothing else. They express it
moment by moment as the universe.
Even this fool of a body
lives it in part, and would
have full dignity within it
but for the ignorant freedom
of my talking mind.
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Once played to attentive faces
its bodice of always-weak lacesthe entirely promiscuous artpours out in public spacesaccompanying everything, the selectionsof sex and war, the rejections.To jeans-wearers in zipped sporransit transmits an ideal bodycontinuously as theirs age. Warrensof plastic tiles and mesh throatsdispense this aural moneythis sleek accountancy of notesdeep feeling adrift from its feelersthought that means everything at oncelike a…
I sound my sight, and flexing skeletons eddy
chamber of my head, I burst the lives of someand slow, backwashing them into my mouth. I lighten,breathe, and laze below again. And peer in long low tonesover the curve of Hard to river-tasting and oil-tastingcoasts, to the grand grinding coasts of rigid air.How the wall of our medium has a shining, pumping rim:the withstood…
Where I lived once, a roller coaster’s range
and cats undulated scream-driven round its seismograph—and climbed up to us with an indrawn gasp of girls.Smiles and yelling could be exchanged as they crestedthen they’d pitch over, straining back in a shriekthat volleyed as the cars were snatched from sightin the abyss, and were soon back. Weekdays they rested,and I rested all days. There…
In the painting, I’m seated in a shield,
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Blats booted to blatant
with rubbings of Sveinn Forkbeardleading a black squall of Harleyswith Moe Snow-Whitebeard andPossum Brushbeard and their ladiesand, sphincter-lipped, gunning,massed in leather muscle on a run,on a roll, Santas from Helllike a whole shoal leaningwide wristed, their tautness stablein fluency, fast streetscape dwindling,all riding astride, on the outsideof sleek grunt vehicles, woman-clung,forty years on from Marlon.
I wrote a little haiku
Lead drips out ofa burning farm rail.Their Civil War.Critics didn’t like it,said it was obscure –The title was the rifleboth American sides bore,lead was its heavy bullet,the Minié, which toreoften wet with blood and serainto the farmyard timbersand forests of that era,wood that, burnt even now,might still re-melt and pourout runs of silvery ichorthe size…