Friday, October 29, 2010

keyboards like teeth

the killer at the station
clutching the memory of his moth
mother the killer at the playstation
clutching the mammary of his
disease doubletap frenetic as all
get out of here he was here I at least
saw him writhe with such intent I saw him
walks up to a car window sticks the gun
there and smiles at this moment
don't you want to be this free
to abandon all of the future
what a slave the future makes of all of us
how much better to jump ship
to abandon oneself to the army of ants

the crawling comes in
on the stair I hear it
slow creep and hoot

it is only 1876 in this time zone
far too early even to get up yet

everywhere you look in this hot house
dead people
sit up

downstairs their mother
bakes away her breasts

such love as this
arrives by parachute
through thick cloud

even I crawled in to feel
for a moment the heat

you, octopus, you

Oh do me Jacques Brel all night

Thursday, October 21, 2010


the advance the slip the pitch
who can remember these words when needed?
or their human configurations it was a black place
it is late already there is a ladder against the wall
a backyard some cigarette butts a dog or two
no light enters here between the forehead
and the prehistoric I almost cannot speak of it
but am guided by owls
a tilt a summoning into the familiar
my name it speaks my name and how
can I do other but step down from all this
into all that the advance the slip the pitch
it came then the understanding
that this was a summons into a place
in which there was only drowning
blah fucking blah at night they shoot the owls
around here
I miss a train the cab driver has to stop to laugh
when I tell him where I have been
oh no he says oh no you are joking
but I am not joking I have been there
and like a paycock I am shot down later
with words and slow fire flapping
as in their caves they sit drooling
black blood
knowing little else now
sure of themselves and their big bodies
that didn't open
not for a second


Friday, October 15, 2010

lyric blowouts

it's late and the trees

it's late and the trees are in hoot

it's late and the trees hot gather

sole cahoot

it's late

the man with the frog in his mouth halfway up the stair
the man the frog stairs something in the cloud frogged me out
the keyboard is a slow politics what tyranny
I am in awe of you your codes that fire up slow
as heath burns hot and wet for weeks after

like weasels something in my mouth I can't
speak it is late and the trees at the window what

was that you where is my mind one pixie more or less
you do this or you die

oomph it comes in
circle of waiting this is not a communicative grammar
that must be left for the catch no one will now
(they might have done then)

it's late and the trees are boiling
I can't keep my head on

have none of it
all of us aslice
flaming slowly this blowing out
(yeah night imagine)
our own black and horrible birthdays

all of you are dead
whipping like kites



Friday, October 08, 2010

An encounter at a waterfall in 1943 or maybe a year later

not to be abusive exactly
nor to be kind exactly
but to cut him down

they are not unkind

everything you need to know about this other human
can be understood from this congress of cavities
there is not much movement in it
by any geological considerations
but if you swim into it

oh put it here quick do it, she/he says in a voice
that opens him wide

he accepts it
as some crude distinction
at once limiting
and trivial -- O

think of this congress of the soft parts like excavated shellfish

warmed a little
sliding together in the twilight
a hum gathers over all of it
bells ring across the city at dawn
some emergency surely
they look for babies in the rubble
fog slides

their mouths move together
like shellfish now without shells
blind things mouthing without mouths

broken shell of a creature underfoot*

this is no longer confusing
he accepts it and goes far away
all the fight gone out of him
his mouth and his heart always ready
to say the same thing
if only it would be asked of him

* nothing

Sunday, October 03, 2010

angels everywhere angels

You are lying; the fish have spoken—Paul Gauguin

in this myth you are the spray
from his mouth
the keyboard lies there empty
there are gods apparently there are gods
but they do not approach

He is almost fastened so avid is he
to her mouth
she will have soreness
a rough reddening
if he got it right she won't care
other considerations will override this one

at this point everything explodes
there are cars full of innocent strangers
but all of them die horribly

we don't care, we keep driving

somewhere down there is a place
where they sell alcohol and drugs until dawn

in the East a cow's head

oh now you are my baby and will be so
until the morning tremor

I was mistaken

speak to me in Spanish or shut up

Vamos a tomar una copa?



Saturday, October 02, 2010

mortar shells in deep softness

so full am I so rain and low pressure
so cyclonic with the urge to love you
in mountains and across wet pools
(now tell me they contain redundancy
if you are so foolish)
anyway so full so wide I am all
of recent towertops and Gothics
my arch really is your arch
pointed are we together at the span
of night I have got it now
all across the bay I am in love
like any other starfish any squid
that muscles up close and sings
one last song

baby please listen
to the last song of the silent squid


if like this like this

hands in your hair

your hair your hair of olive wind
if a language flowing outward

if filaments of memory if even the trees
if everything here warm slow
wild and slow-wild if how you come to life

in my hands your hair flows out
if all morning so flowing out descending bright birds
inside us calling long ago this moment keens

your contours your hachures your rising and falling
your planes your whirling your little Sufi gasp

if like this, like this

heartbeat and breath and hollow ground
and midnight morning and all day and dusk that arcs between
blue spirit flames, radio crackles

and if along our hillsides
like this, like this, we start to collapse

in the fading red shadow of this our body

then this, this is the spray of night

[duende, red-black, in murmurs]


poem poem a straight poem

you will never understand this
because the sky does not lower
for examination
this magic rabbit more or less flies
over the road singing as he goes
no one knows now who threw him
oh yes guffaw I have written these notes
and no longer understand them
I am incomprehensible to myself
you have no chance
that rabbit look oh let us negotiate
I have drowned in myself
the same rabbit idiot on the hillside
the murderer enters in fancy dress
his ears aloft antennae switching
murder involves this acuity
you want to do it right

the best poet in the world doesn't write
she lives in a cave just below the surface
caressing her own breasts, weirdly

do you know that Atahualpa wore a shirt
made of hummingbird feathers? I'd like to think
it was a shirt of hummingbirds, and each of them
there by consent
what a humming
and a disturbance of the air
around that breast
just before Pizarro arrives and
starts to tread on them one by one.

Word sales run in inverse proportion to literary greatness
a shake over the river
seriously a wild moment of cloud and tremor
from the water a head rising
some vast island head of dragged green
all over it this same wet fury

this is not for you
it is all secret
even its words and footsteps
in all this silver shining night


Friday, October 01, 2010

Zoroastrian prayer

these lies these lies these lies
what are you thinking
you are a haze of flies in a field
somewhere I don't know where
maybe far away in some country
where lies are the thing the very thing
where games like this
are exactly the right stuff
explooosions take place in the night
we walk outside and marvel
at such egregious lies
look we cry open-mouthed
look oh God look at such bursting lies
if only we might emulate them
might travel to such fictions
find ourselves there amongst the stars
such superheroes such elevations
would we be there such constellate tridents
meanwhile you are a motherfucker
what got no wings