adorns the stones,
words ripening your mouth
to a spoilation
of silence.
Who speaks here
reads a text that downloads
the screen of his fingernail,
through which nothing’s visible
as glass is.
For the memorial
we must kneel
to pick each flower
from amongst its modifiers:
but to do that
one needs a hand bared
of all uses, of all trades:
as ours is not.
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of sea is a taste wept too daily,too depleted by freedom’s rupture;the eyes have other secrets to seeand deeper use for the detrituswithin us: the bright effluviumof ego dries up, mired as it isin wealth, that remedial medium.Blame it on fate, on beach memories–pebble put in the pocket or shellfragments; any memento carriesus as much…
I’m tired of murdering children.
now I feel Vietnam the placewhere rigor mortis is beginning to set-in upon me.I force silence down the throats of mutes,down the throats of mating-cries of animals who know they are extinct.The chameleon’s death-soliloquy is your voice’s pulse;your scorched forehead a constellation’s suicide-note.A phonograph needle plunges through long black hair,and stone drips slowly into our…
The way the world is not
It doesn’t blink a leafWhen we step from the houseLeads me to thinkThat beauty is natural, unremarkableAnd not to be spoken ofExcept in the course of thingsThe course of singing and worksharingThe course of squeezes and neighborsThe course of you tying back your raving hair to go outAnd the course of course of meAstonished at…
I’m charmed yet chagrined by this misunderstanding–
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After your death,
a round animal, nameless.
Time, time, time, time, the clock
and then even that lacksprophylaxis.Ticktock-pockmarked, strickenby such strokes, weget sick of prescriptionswhich work solelyon the body.Systole diastole–It is by its veryintermittencythat the heart knowsitself to be an I.