If I could, I would entirely disappear into a word

or the pages of a book and live there. One need not

worry about dust between the jacket or contemporary

styles of hair. Of course, I would want shelf privileges,

a sort of osmotic passport to move amongst the genre's-

God forbid I am stuck in some torrid romance novel.

In the Sense of Hearing

You said you heard God's mouth move
without speaking. In all of my life,
I've not know a mute swan to sing
or my good father cry.

When we accept that fire is missing,
the unbroken, breaking, the sound
of two voices whispering prayer-
this is disappointment.

Here in this silence, we heal hours
we've wounded like roads of the city,
salt between stars, shadows of living,
the promise of heaven.

Have we lost the voice that rings
sensible, useful- desperate, beautiful;
not what we are that calls to God
but the very essence that's missing?

With opened eyes all our words
are speechless and I saw
a thunder cloud dissolve
in a quiet sky.

Beginnings

with
for
at
as
on
upon
by
in
for
with

effulgent equus

Rustle, you black sails of Time

The Darkness of the Wall

Someone's misery is not ours. It is
raining in Darfur; we have never been
there. At the end of the road, the woods
rise up like a dark mysterious wall. If we
only reach out to touch it- we become it.

Tear down the wall.

Pupa

We are not meager like the root, that's certain.
Transparent, wounded more like tentacles of light
reaching out and down and infinitely dying- my silences,
your forbidden syllables, what existed, what is still
surviving. We are stitches of our dreams, our lover's lips
a needle, our cloth a cocoon in which we speak quietly
to eachother without words or eyes or happiness.
Our music is a book whose pages are a heart that skips
and beats faster, our dance a shadowy body moving
gracefully on a balcony in warm air, our living like
the outside of a universe, immense, inspiring.
Each night, an opened robe, every morning, unfastened,
unworried, delighted, dipped again in the language that
brightens us, we become a stranger to ourselves.

To Rachel of the Brim...

how your linen cup linen porch, like wood,
cream the invisible body, and me,

loss /beauty /imagine the sun or the souring invisible body,
i thought the fall

liquid moments fall into accident
drying laced afternoons
then wood, milk fingers on linen
handle handle tightly, you,

accidents drying on rim stability,
broken, our cup of heat souring

it's souring on a rim afternoon,
touching touching bottom sun

HUH?

To know yourself is to know your disease.

What good company the blue flute to

well-written notes of these veins; how

tenderly practiced its plangent tunes.

If I could shake myself like a dog I would feel

more useful than intelligent. I am tired of finding

dead birds in the garden, limp as oil and still

beautiful. Here's the thing: so you're a bird

and you fall out of a tree. Does it have to break

my heart? The world is filled with predators.

Some of them even attended Harvard. When

you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror,

that telling, smear of dried blood on your lip,

do you ask yourself: what am I?

Llama II (foreground & background)

monsters of Independence Day

monsters of Independence Day
in the potato fields lighting off
pesticides with the storm coming,
fireflies. butter does not explode.

potatoes won’t fly. Eagle River burnt
to the ground in orange and purple
light. remains are a patch of gravel,
empty bottles, scorches. mouth full

of ash, light scars on retinas.
the air cool now the rain is coming.

LONGUS

Felt a compulsion to post today 11.07.2007

Fen and Spoil

Mired in thought I sit in front of you, not a moment’s reprieve from the thought that thought the thought antecedent to this thought, to and fro, back and forth, the seamless thought that thinks in the dark, awaiting the march forward that will bring an end to the mire and fen. I thought an answer, but I was sorely mistaken, the thought I thought, the one antecedent to this one, was mistaken, a thought, thought out of line, a thought without a thinker, mired in the slough and peat, such is my Gomorrah in life, my fen and spoil.

Afterlife

When no one was looking,

the shadow ate the moth

and cat licked grey-powdered

wing off the windowsill.

Longing

Truth in its web is spider;
hungers for larger prey
than flies. How it dreams

of hornets, hummingbirds
and horses trapped

in sticky threads.

fur lease

they overnighted
Super handjobs
from golgotha
readying grenadine
green ades
in (carol)'s
vag(ina)
who farted fifty
dollar bills at
checkpoints
in filly
were jailed
for counter
fits and candy
stripping
at wanker
whose whole fist fulls
of maggot harems
and card beasts
pump
jizzums
in
stale bearded
ladies
at Karl
hole pints of
half witted
beggars
saw smoked
rings at cinnabar
in amtrak
whistled dixie
in the halls
of val amaral
told
billies to fuck off
at winston
owed money
at college
wrote damnation
on the stalks
of wheat in
Kansas
ate milkbones
at the zoo
in tulsa
choked democrats
in the republic
of expensive plate
hoarded ravioli
in the pantry
of kangol
wore a hat
in the heritage
of beaver
told poets
they were
good
on your face
ate one thousand
tons of shit
and choked
on a raindrop
in Dallas.

The Door's Own

So I told the door of collaborative colour. The porch owns a particle, and its sunlight brings a green rain. That rain chooses everywhere, with flowers that ooze forth, fade, then linger as memory intended. The sun slants every which way, and we become enamoured. Love is like a flock turned towards the wind, which has been brought to turmoil by shifts in temperature, which, you know, carries on the program. The porch is a garden, the garden is a shift, and shifting fills a bottle with cold water. The water is delicious because it satisfies our core. We are loving, expressly, in the green of the porch and beyond. So I invented a door, at least, my story did. My own faction, that is, and let green ignite its sensation: timely proposition and soothing thru the roof of the new place. We fare here, well. And the ferns are glorious in bedded luxury, with the bronze tinge in fall a note of transformation already anticipated. Roads flick cars and people elsewhere, here and there. Sun lifts masses of temperature to new regard. Moon stumps for more time, more glowing terms. And the rain met our gaze, filled puddles and doxologies, and startled us again. Such is the studied path, invented by the merest mention of a door.

location of the Paulding Lights of the Upper Peninsula, MI

cf. footage of the lights

I Am The Hollowed-Out Godbolt

I conduct experiments on cold gods and free entombed their tyr and spite.

I have malice held in globes and dark structures

embedding themselves within my wrists like snakes.

I plan as stratagem their second-hand racing.

Hurt is a godly thing when measured by a cutlass.

As I strove for perfection like quantity

in their droves they are blistered like statues,

held by the mirror as a vast inclination.

I pity them with my power and jagged sleep,

those with their futures behind their backs.

Brittle with colums and 23 flies hung bereft,

I dance braille through their halls with passionless joy

I have seen the construction of their science,

lanced it with hourglass and struck it with the only mercury i could find.

I; an inverse Midas.

-

A black swan is outside my cell every morning.

It does nothing but vacate the premises.

So in that mode I close supine and fold lightly into this space.

I can wrong the hanged of their bended cities

but at the cost of my forensic bliss..?

Vision pans out.

I perplex heads on a streetlight city roadmap,

complete with virgil guide.

The turn of his face reveals nothing more than

a bastardised Edo mask of somesort.

I lean and glide in panics 7 through 9 and fill the theatre within my head.

Alice like

arms from ears.

Perhaps not.

Think I'll stick to my chaos.

poem

the death-trap that this city is
or will be when the empire falls
grimaces in pretty pills
and glows in emerald specs of Oz
like it was something really ours

only our death is ours and comes
a myriad little spiral ways
and faces into the background buzz
and dances in the foreground flames
and flickers in our guiding stars

then cruel

At first, they were humane,

removing it

from your body;

then cruel,

sewing the ends

back on with

thick black thread.

Now, when heart

beats, soul swells.

Rock in Stages

The rock shows allure in its rain pose. Gardens sting with what the flowers fail with. Points of stern gallons close over less than words but all you know. Trembling guards read Bonham's death, as drummers go. This rock, stump of granite, nixes namesake in a throng. We could go on, training the years to fence. Justified range fans the fire, creeks spill and merrie, then summer closes. What were we listening to, gabbing over the news of something else in the world? Our cares in instrumental sentences, launched as a trustworthy time in time. You called when the death of Bonham could be true. Straining funds needle the rest of the trance, that is, the old folks were laid out strong. Or weakening, really, as the rain undermined their footing, and summer emphasized some fading. My years, your years, the craning towards the marsh grasses and rippled by wind all proffer a picture. Stop on this dime, present, older, and remake the movie. The rock remains.

In the Midline

Something pink and fluffy
in the middle of the road;

we can't always identify
what we run over at high speeds.
As you pity inanimate-ness,
tragedies left by the wayside

these things ultimately build
a refuse-type of paradise.

In the machine, our handmade lacquered
dreams possess us, our fast metal shrines
grinding over discarded, exposed soft,
pink fuzziness in the narrow midline.

The Key Sex Is Held In

You ask the difference,
A handful of tears - a bird in flight
Head and heart thick with emotion
A slap on the wrist
Disconnect. NOW.
A knife that kills and showers no blood.
Almost a perfect fit.

Biting Tongues One Tooth At A Time

After I fell into a blackout
my tongue bled.

I woke up disoriented
sworn I'd seen wraiths
scattering into the unseen

I groped for the message
in the hindsight

It trickles slowly
like a leaky tap.

being primed to extract the bend from detail

in some grisly fastidious heyday
it was advantageous to stoop
at the nape of desiccation


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Lovers seeking their other half

straightforward struggle

dots sweating sentence.

At the end of a logical, structured remark, a dot.

The dot must know something.

There are tears in the way the sentence stops.

There are traditions fitting into the nexus that the sentence comprises.

You think in hieroglyphics then adopt this trap.

What kind of a person, reaching across the dark street, into the church, where altars are playful and imply no more than a bumper sticker or worried look, past the rotten flowers, hoping for what, redemption? And the choice of two crappy political articles situated in the gloom of the village, all the while the person reaching into the church with words that need a syntactical environment, and a way to end. So the sentence, dutifully, conjugates a reply to all the fret and teeming wordplay... there are tadpoles in Walden Pond!

stakes of slavery

stakes of slavery

the story was so twisted
unravelling remains the task
what is real
what is not
what is true
what cannot
who cannot
who will not
even begin to seek
to see for themselves
let alone consider
they too can fly
because the
story is so
twisted
they'll
know
not
.

peace & harmony,
elaine
'freedom must be exercised to stay in shape!'
sunday in july 8th?, 2K7, 10:25 p.m.

POEM

No sign of tired
mimicry tied to the deal
black chat haphazardly motion
to sleep conceptually

Steep frame a blame trade
bleed all leads a distant
glance at the red chance
you take cleanly.

cutting

cutting his throat
with her mobile phone
the morning sun

paul conneally

el birmano

venus as a boy/15 years old/caracas/venezuela/my friend in myspace/a painter/

Complicities

COMPLICITY V