Friday, December 07, 2007

Misanthropic Needles

Evening in her dress lifts the hem

For a peep at thunder, maybe rain.

Hope for the tomb, laughter

Comes over a loud speaker

Installed near your armpit.

Quietly, quietly,

It is necessary to interrupt.

One point in the distance

Is a huddle of laundry

Dry, rotting, perverse.

Some hunters and their deer,

They tie the racket to a tree

And unload beer, carnage

Cleaning the esophagus is severed.

This deer has a sack of potatoes in her

Corset. Blue eyes

In the dark barn. Someone

Playing a piccolo stops

To a sudden distance. Recall

The posture of a cloud

Alerting us all to a mourning.

So many trumpets of countryside

So many calming ointments.

Meanwhile the geese engage in firefights,

Misled by the compass points

Engagement like pulling rings

Through their nipples.

A lizard crawls out of the cold

Remembering the belly of rock

Igneous, geometric spindle

I wish it was still cold out

So the sacrifice wouldn’t rot.

I’m the air in a swirl as the pickup truck

Passes. Frightful eaves outside a morticians


Awkward slip of change




My minutes are running out: each

Second marked by a dog bark

To which I wince abominably.

Track of mud and hair

Enormous shame.

And the door is ambiguous

Eternal separatist

Possessed of elements

A car in the wind, a breeze

Over streets, some shopping

Perhaps I’ll buy a Peruvian Mask

Made of seal intestine.

Attuned to the cracking sidewalk’s

Edge, blank’s signature

Sand on wind convection

Tighter circles until synched.

Hanging plants invested

Of root, I demand a recount.

One grain catches me in the eye

My eye, caught and hung

From a tree, her spindle root

Flagellating in wiry creation

I am working a finger up and

Back into view.

This apartment is expensive

But it has a great view.

It could be said of kindness

She holds a pin to the sun.

So I dig with my hands because

Deflation is obvious,

The mounds are godlike, it’s a shame.

Merit and bloom, cantankerous

Twins shouting

To a mother unburdening her wax

I am not without a grave, spectacle

Not submergible without

A word for drowning.

I’m eating a footlong

And scraping out manifestoes

So measured by feet fit just barely

Through the walls

Made to enclose a god.

My sandwich prefers track lighting

While the subway looms neon,

Together they produce

A segmented apartment building

For the worm to inhabit.

It is in the ability to hand

Streets their walking shoes

That the technical louver of rainwater

Slices fingers off,

Children’s digits to god,

Her segmented ability to

Both gnaw

And be worshipped.

Balanced blood vessel

Is a skill of blending,

One foot on either side

Of the knife,

Beach sand gently sawing

At an unhurried mistake.

Dredging chasms of Bank Notes

Departed headstones.

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