Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Dirt Sequnce

Asparagus, typhoid, delirium, when a bird flies into your house you’d better get out. The little bird flies into your house. It’s sweet and tastes like death. It’s warm like a breeze made of furnace hearts. You know how a forge makes its children? It grows them in a dream and then it blows them out into the summer evening to show up with you alone in the room battering a little heart and yellow beak streaked red into nothing new. Arrange. The. Nothing. New.

White sky like a nick in the blade. Shaving in glossy refreshment. The forgetting stew of porcelain. Storage. Green embers and the water heater. I hide a little there. The knock at the door. It’s just the water man, the bill collector. The tilted hat. The fallen angel. Later, after the neighbors dog stops barking I come back out and turn off the TV. Through the vents. The clicking vent stack. The white clouds and blue, blue forever.

Nursing magic. Stretch, lace, pigs in the yard, round side up to meat. Taste of the sky. In the papers, women severed from feathers, futures, the fashionable torso. But still they run away. The working legs. the good lord made us a load to stand upon and so they run away, commanded by burden, on. To. The. Nothing. New.

Ash heart, ash heart, sugar pink. Smells like daggers in the air. Pale cheek hair shadow pimp. Shadows are colors over eyes. Shadows are fears if someone dies. Dip me in the canister and squeeze me full. Mark up the air, sideways, petticoat pink. Shadow. Ink. Ash can, ash can.

Skin tone stones. Mallet heavy. Press the sinners to the dirt. Return us to the dirt made of skins. We believe. Sacred thumb press down, press the switch off. Switch back, switches to backs, the pain in language marks. The message is clear for the dirt to read. She fills it with her fingers. Garnish it with children. Remember the mound of the body, the shelf life of inventories, inventions of skin. Skin, pressed, stacked, cast to stone.

Friday, February 16, 2007

The Vericose Quadrangle

Sacred Overpass

Glint. Gum. Crown of debris inhabiting the turrets

Of locomotion. Finally I can spot the wheels of the train

In a rumble of light, deep wobbling pressure

Like my bowels, sweet and prolonged

But drawing near like storms at sea, veined

Of marbled as the jewels of heaven.

Dizzy exhaust is my cup of wine, over

Dispatches of the street, the bus and delivery

Connect inside my heart, its sponge

Of canary light now garbled in the announcers

Teutonic revenge, now rippled off the Metro

Pausing on its quest to let me join in her flight.

My end of the world is a wandering heart.

What luck: the Sports page.

The Sacrament of North Miami Beach

Beautiful apartment building, your veins suck

History from the concrete, the sky ferments

Around you into clouds, a sick whiskey of dead furniture,

Contaminated dreams and trees resigned to failure.

I skirmish your Laundromat, the whip of wet shirts

Humiliation of beech towels molding into strands of hair.

Oh obscurer of helicopters and gales, chop of the evil

Of the moguls of retirement, the hordes in white hair

Devilish like the Hun, scourging vacation time

With interstates, the commerce of bloodied feet

On wave white coral, refreshments of blood like taillights.

Invincible, invincible shadow, cornice against death,

Muscle of crumbling ascent, forty years gone to pot,

My resurrection, my deckchair Jerusalem.

Sacred Overpass II

Look there belch-throat, the sea lined Shangri-La
You will never measure up to. Aventura, fake pumice

So high-rised you cant see the failure of detail, the so
Not Spanish looking evaporating into the strata

Of wealth, nude but for its own money. I unfasten
My longing, the Intracoastal will not permit my breath

Of truck tires, humility bred from the ruined parking lots
Out near the stadium of gnats, hero of sea-urchins,

Professional measurer of dust, (which by the way is shot
Glass by shotglass). Look, look, The Unachievable

So shudderingly beautiful and air-conditioned and coastal
Moneyed that a million gallons of mercury will transform

Into honey before I can smother it with my eyes, before
The turnpike will hand me a cocktail and nudge me over.

Torrential Cruise Lines

Remember the neon architecture of the pavilion,

The enchanted little goat cart, so distracted.

The piers are bull faced baggage handlers;

The bare teeth of rebar snarling from this half built bridge

Is a glimpse at Hell’s blood vessels. The distant

Homeless catch buses and pass aromas of stung failure

And curry into the dream of aristocratic car dealerships.

Underneath the 39th street over pass our coachman

Strings plastic bags of graffiti along a wire like fish.

What frigid wind is this so out of place

Among the walking furnaces? What light out of the ruins

Causes all the children to get fat off of remorse?

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Valediction Through the Dishwasher

Blustery knives cleaned out of the traps

and screwdrivers prancing in bonnets

trampling order and saplings tremendously

like porcupines impressing each other

with hairnets and sandwich rinds.

And so, on prairies of hair, the brush

knocks out its teeth trying to

kill the nutria blessed, like shark’s teeth,

in rows. So sugar bleeds from her mouth

as much as she gnaws on the bout bottom.

Anointed bomb, gather the markets. Stomp

the cubes. Order another knifing. Stretch

roads out across this America of knives

so no one will notice its the dishwasher.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Narcochotic Disymptomia

What do you get out of the seatback

but trash, legumes, the follicle

of a diaper remnant and that old

world smell, locating across the ages

to remind us such simple shell evacuations

as “Go west and be remade” contuse

as easy as that old Scottish bagpipe

to the head, mitochondrial drum and fife.

Blink twice and it’s Athens, again

a bloodbath or rehearsal for sub-continental

tragedies like folk novels and genocide.

The landing’s gearing down to premature

cigarette appearance, the dusty Greeks

in their rayons are sweating the generations.

Monday, February 12, 2007

Third Culture Baptismal

What flying does one consequence
To know the secrete and lament

Cool graves outspread down woe
And chocolate dishy parapets

Made. Make order to the breezey
Down, clouds constructed like new

Cities bloom. Up here I live in dying,
Force Xanax to a prince’s coat

And vomit like a secret child
In the smoke-free terlet.

It takes 16 hrs to crost one ocean
And one window to peep down of

Each swirl of sleep bent hair
Admits the failure to ignore

these lengths of crossing.

It's the Astral Tubing

There’s the shadow of an old

building on the wall of the building left

standing next to the lot where

garbage grows as if fed on cold.

Blink & ship contain the westward hinge

like magnets in soft padding. Soft ply granulates

the new fissures. Where just a block away

the river, regulated & stump

gnarling like the chewed elbow

can you feel this, it’s disgusting

like cavities of squeezing

and generous lumps bombing

the old torso with cream curds

and evacuations. Don’t pretend,

it suits the river more,

the snivel wall from streets of flood

and brick shaped house holes.

see there. Think how way down

the sluice of river churns the mud open

like the hollow body removed of organs

still pulses because of shape. Form

not longing or need, the wrinkled lip,

combs the even landscape. Halo a jug of missing

out of the lump left in the river.

Monongahela The Poets

Sunday, February 11, 2007

I Monongahela For the World

I sponge the mercury factory banks
the mall is security now

the five amber streets lay ingots
to where now? where.

The bacteria kiss each other
inside my sponge, inside my finger tips

help me, I’m summer now, old
& electronically deranged.

Here it goes: I live, two rivers change
a name, up & down the ride

goes on with water & then the sonic
boom with needles and pairs

in threes, sleeping. The soft green animal
is beautiful on fire.

Insert the oil, the imagination.
Put the robot here. Let him

feel the emotions & the fish
Turn back into chrome.

What I can not is spring or summer.
The silver is a sponge. Quick.

No. It is a River.

Friday, February 09, 2007







Out in the open.

Cut & sewn like links

Out in the sausage

The edges are crinkling

Curling up

As though finished.


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