We are the un-
knowability of the wind.
Our song terrorizes
the possibility of simple
love in simple trees
with simple nests.
This is why
our children can’t fly.
ink from my pen
flows through my veins
just beneath the skin
snaking its way
towards the source
of its maddening chaos
it stains the bones
of my rib cage
seeping into the marrow
People always say that size matters.
But these days, it’s hard to know what’s true.
So I studied the subject for myself—to see
if the reports I’d heard were just fake news.
Science says Frenchmen have the largest members.
Monsieur Bedel indeed insisted
his was best and that I kiss it! kiss it!
A frog with frantic aim, he lashed about:
As if to whip a fly from my cervix,
he jerked his darting la queue faster than a blink.
I’ve seen the destruction
of visions, the penetration
of a good cause, seen souls
anesthetized by sadness.
The only constant is endurance,
is the thing that jumps out from
the void then reverses back
into its indifferent swallow.
One change, then the moment
slips into a new glimpse of understanding.
One small desire fulfilled and all pain
They hold the ghost feather.
They cry by cause of extreme imaginations.
Paranoia on pillows,
the stench of shoes and month-old towels
Liberty in sleeping pills & mirrors
that have no shine.
This they have, spirits stabbed
with hunger, doubt & arrogance
raging equally by their bedsides.
Encyclopedias divulged in dead languages
& hoards of filthy critics teasing with
axe and indifference
their true-goal flower.
They crack their heads on insecurity.
They do not believe in this world.
From balconies, from strait-jackets,
from honeymoon apartments, they expose
the human guilt, delicate visions
that seduce the blind with wonder.
I would like to hide
from the mountains, sleep
as a thief
in the assaulted night.
How do I compare my
of slain desires,
in a bird’s thin crop.
into the unfathomable, happy
past: Wolves eyes, I see
confronting with unaware darkness.
their tune so beautifully stagnant, making me stumble
on Arizona ground in a dry summer,
I caught a glimpse of
to avenge my perfect day. It was an apparition,
to the paradoxical
are as irretrievable
Someone is watching me
Today, it is chaos.
Tomorrow – a child
will be born.
does not sing
nor look for
comfort from the sky.
as moonlight upon a wave. Face
like a roadmap of a sad
primeval journey. Sad
like the first thoughts
of wasted love. Sad
like the night jungle in all its
in the midday rains. Cry for the African
trees, rotting from the weight of
a human-made world.
to receive your large-heart’s manna.
The lonely climate
with child, near a river that carries
the many deaths of those before
your wild and doubtless
I will not turn again
from her sad space & ruin.
No wand, no crocodile
tongue will shut
The hour is blood, is
boiling, is locked
in her iron skull. Her back is straight
for the first time in months, and
her fingers tap the table one by one.
I saw her climb
the ladder & crash.
I saw the marrow leak from her bones.
I will not turn again.
My smile will be her shelter,
and with my chains & circle,
I will build for her a garden
where the crows will dance
to drown her madness,
November curled itself around my
Spine like cigarette smoke,
Seeping into me.
December froze in her grey web.
I want to wake from the dark,
Sleep naked in moon-cooled dirt,
Deep in the night where graves
Spread like black pollen.
I am where the wind
Snuffs out candles,
Can touch a curtain like a ghost,
Like a bell.
Like the dead I escort
Sap to want.
The crank of your wrist,
the flex-action of your tendons
pries the brakes from my Chevrolet Prizm,
rains rust on your face
and when you punch the tire
to knock it loose
I won’t take it personally.