SHAVASANA
The day is glass
Hubris of named hours
A mantra powerful as a
plant
What if the dead could
vote?
The mighty limbs
The black nerves of the
earth
Frame an isthmus of
static
Blue & nostalgia
the language of sundogs
Pools purple sugar
Water & the insect
limbs of sweat
Discomfit a crown of
daisies
A ring of poppies a
corpse in the sun
Ringing. Silver slash
of meteors
& pulverized
diamonds
Dip of a beak, a
proboscis
Into the moonstone vein
The clear eyes of
fireflies
A fire in the dawn heat
A heart
The herm of a second
(LOVE
IS LIKE) A HEATWAVE
after
Martha Reeves & The Vandellas
Age comes
on in the spring
inside
a black egg
what
happens to you
has no
shape a slick
of
magnolia tongues
a red old
bruise on the flagstones
silky
crush on strangers’ feet
somehow
the humans keep coming
like it
never gets old
the brass
loop of fortune every
available
bird to the old
unreported
dead tree an orgasm
of ink on
the grey
lawn
it’s always unawares
the cold
of the salt sea the wick
effect on
the lake the fires
burn on
little boats in the dark
kaleidoscope
its bone tube
in the
cloud rabbits golden
for the
age not much
to
complain about because not
too much
thought given too many
laborious
green flames
Diviner
The coffee is for the
blackness
of the distended night,
its two fucking
minds X-ing at a
scissor-point.
This preening is a
ritual death
repeated on the hour;
the bolts
carefully plucked from
the quiver
& broken across the
knee.
Even Jackson Pollock
staring
into his own raked face
the painting could not
destroy it. But even
this
is apocryphal, a
divining rod pointing not
at water but another
rod
pointing up at it from
under
the ground.
UTOPIA
PKWY
Coltrane’s quotidian
sun peeling
winter off everything
still cold
blue but not me,
a closed system
you might say—
my skin
is thick , but still
the sun peers
inside & does its
violence.
If I cannot
be human,
why must I be
mortal? It’s black
coffee.
It’s legerdemain.
Consider this plain
100,000 years thence—
wouldn’t it be easier
to just eat things
from the grass &
have nothing
to say?
Because I honestly
have nothing to say;
you will begin to drift
toward
the margins, all lit
up
by the day
like it could not be
any different; some
make a big deal out
of shutting up—
I don’t.
SUN
SHIP
Sun
ship
for
a bier
Stone
grey heads nod
goodbye
Stars
melt
into
a joke
a
line of feathers
into
the next universe
It
will be
nothing
like
writing
A
cradle
of
atoms
A
voice
A
call
A
gold circle
of
the others expanding
like
a song
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