Friday, August 31, 2007

*Talent*

"I have an eye for it," We says,
munching the tit of our heads.
And, "I have an eye for it," We thinks,
without alibi or reason but instead

We forgets
Really We's only always wished We had an eye for it.

Wishing suffices for having:
Clad in ourself in a forest of our intention
we become invisible.

We can't see us
but We can hear us
scratching at the pine wood

We bursts through the dirt, one
hand thrust like lilies
We stands, shakes, and stumbles
toward referenceless cities:

We isn't done.

We isn't done.

We dresses up what We wants
and calls it a part of us.

We kidnaps it and beats it
until it talks.

We ransoms it to ourselves
and makes the drop off.

We stands with the briefcase,
millions aligned,
and We hands what
We wants to what
We wants to receive what
We wants to

believe that We is.

But We looks down both ends
of the highway and don't see We coming.
We turns and turns against the stretch but

We don't have the eye for it yet.

We's given We away to We and this --

this is what We calls seeing?

Wednesday, August 8, 2007

*A handwritten letter sent from hell by a man with a typewriter for a head*

Dear Julia:

Allow for me your hand to kiss. Each bone
at night is like the tick of clocks. Alone,
the movement of a wrist is silent.
There’s nothing like a syntax lapse: (inside
still of you I am). This garden is strange:

we were fine until the blackened mass
kept creeping in at the edge. It could not
be ignored. Muscles must degenerate

in time. But why weren’t we old, say fifty-five,
sipping tea and orange by a fireside?
The problem is, I must admit, I had
to die, but I don’t quite know why. It seems,
well, what exactly should I say—it feels
like eyes avoided by eyes avoided by eyes.

Sunday, August 5, 2007

*A title is a lifetime of things that will never happen.*

Our dreams crumble like feta cheese amongst the leafy greens.

Friday, August 3, 2007

*On a clear day you can see forever*

Drops of rain between buildings where things
rub against each other: violins
and fleshy objects with broken eyes. The open
currents of angels flickering dim then off,
curling inward as a remote source of light.
It’s pleasant to think of the distant dawns that chase
sunsets over hills, to want to feel
the lift and fall, the assembly of infant eyes.

Yet, white machines have forged and swallowed
scrapes then clicks. The sensation of any one
life to explain them all explains no one.
Formed, a congress of naked creatures crawl
until alone; old books on a dusty wall.

Thursday, August 2, 2007

*Rectum absolved*

An old friend drank half and half
in my dream last night.
Then, altered to fecal sight,
God fucked me in the ass. He
beat my face and he laughed:
‘My sacred cock consumes thee.’

When I awoke, slightly scarred
I cringed, phoned a friend. He said,
‘that wasn’t God, God is dead!
Plus, I only drink whole milk
from metal tanks—don’t be scared,
those fuckers have nipples like silk.’

Again, up, again. A rift,
a dream slit: half love, half hate--
a message that came in haste.
Spoke an ashen dove, a crow,
‘God wants a relationship with you.’
I reply, I know. I know.