3-31-2011

A map of fish cages, my childhood is circular
fragments framed by the drape of
the land on this side, the sea on that side.

I was so young then; you were still a hellion,
unfolding like a lobster trap at the base of a lake

and I was a channel.
My fingernails spreadso
from my mouth, wide,
the images in my throat crawl out.
Clean calf,
I disappeared into the eyelashes
of the fade of the world, with little black hooves
and loyal white legs.

I remember when you were inside me then,
the darkness was silk that became a prayer in my blood,
cancer parted me like fevered sludge.
Horizontal in my river, poured your narrow banner,
your lower landscape,
your quick-bleating sod
and your ruined squall.
I gave you permission to kneel godless.
In your cemetery,
your wrists of agony
were caught fish in the bramble.

Looking back, the sweet hum of your nudges
was a jawbone,
thick-fingered and gray shaped.
I hissed at you,
and you, in low voices
asked to be hoisted and banished.
You, lifted by grizzly machinery,
were rusty as the joint of a decaying tooth.

Creation Stories

Man was born in streams of milk
from Earth's whimpers in the night.
The Sky, twinkling archway with cigarette.
Father, dangled his pipe.

God shattered his fist.
Shut in the boughs of grace, furnaces
smoked God out.
Furies of our intersections
muddled God's laughter
and shrieks of our shame flags
flew like an oven,
or a Resurrection
of gut-sacks.
God, throbbing, squeezed the soil
and from Earth's wounds, Man slipped out.

His Mother cooed: "Man was born thirsty."
Man raged into her volcano breasts,
and they were minnows who slithered
upstream.
The Sky saw Man as a bastard
whose delicate eyes would jerk open
when suffocated or
whose body would drift
when washed too clean.
God loved the human rubbish until sundown.
Sky became twilight and
He gave man palms to beg with.

hakiuish

modern words are ancient
fly towards history
longing for old names.

postcard

always building.
ode to you who builds.
heavy, the hands of construction
and
long, the faces who fashion bronze.
Oh, light eternal
monuments mild fire gentle.
Your crown of languish and laurel
burns like a wreath.

new apartment.

home.

many churches.

many churches.

many bells.

him.

many churches.

many bellies of balloons.

ventricle. ventricle. ventricle.

in the bellies of balloons.

never was afraid of a secret never swallowed.

many bellies full of illness.

many bell tolls of many churches.

home.

him.
Alone.

breaths between the 4 and the 6

Disappear.

Illusive passageways echo to the bend.

The distance between time.

No train to either side.

No, I have not forgotten

the way my throat swelled

to another realm of thirsty

when faced with your face. Your slightly open mouth.

Thin and nimble, legs only for you.

Ventricle to lonely ventricle,

every thunder of you first sung in refrain.

Sorry-song swimmer, you are of the sea,

drowned, your magic was tragic and black.

Urchin choruses sad-saw cry:

for your nets, I was foam.

Woe.

The sinew.

Between you

and I.

Saw you all silver. Mysterious as forgiveness.

Circular skylines deeply repeating,

elapsing morning arms,

coffee table dawn with no poetry in sight.

Away inches from a scripted deity of cartography;

a partitioned abyss, leagues down you found

stubborn flowers, a front-seat kiss.

You, of the lines.

As effervescent

as clothes-pins

strung up on twine.

Pulsing, this harmony embodies

homage to the wind, to life.

Any day now, any day now,

fall apart in this metaphor.

Moonlight corridor, night after night.

Were You Lonely, Cupcake?

Deeper dishes hidden in the pantry in the dark

she asks:

How Do I Love This Body?

How do I...love?

Does she roll it out of dough.

Consumer of the hot flame fuel I watched your tabletops grow

in the corner hearth fires.

Baby, you are so beautiful,

and hungry.

There are biscuits for the open window in your being, what was empty

what was lonesome can be clotheless in the shower, in the hot steamy mirror.

Do you raise your eyelids to witness?

Sink-swim again in your kitchen.

the marble-ish counters are hospitable houses for making warm mouths,

salivate, tempting

bite by bite of bread, butter, butter, butter: more butter.

Stay hidden, always remain silent and self-assured

not a one will know about the cranberries, or the chocolate-chocolate loaves

cooling in the sills of your kitchen.

Aprons fold so nicely over our tummies, tie it.

Kiss the delicate touches of saffron, of basil.

You are god's tastebuds.

You are his fingertips.

You reach for a fried-up crusty crustacean

he's dried-up and useless, crawling home.

Who will hold your sorrow besides a cookie jar?

a tempting salutation from a mushroom top, or a congruent cocktail made with

champagne ...and St. Germaine...

Balsamic reduction, redux, influx.

"Hey mister you can have me if you hand me your heart and your belly.

I'll saute you into submission.

Pour your journey into me, I'll swallow it

and kiss away your tired."

I saw you eating your dinner of rice and gruyere in a closet,

under mother's cashmere,

crumpled were your tears.

Pilsner in hand, a loaf in common:

Are you able to eat this? Do you think its delicious?

This is serendipitous.