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.

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