Animus

It had snowed,
& it was night time.
We did not know it yet,
but this was, or is, or could be-
Revisited.

Tho- I am alone, & Above & I am moving
without my legs below me.
The hill is marked by dirt,
& tall grasses untended to.

I move, there-
with two young boys sitting at the base of my neck.
They do not see me, nor I them,
& they do not feel the cold.

& I see it, then-
There-
& I know, now, what to say.

"When I was your age, there were shapes."






*Written following the dream I had. The night of 12/21/2012

New Years Eve

We showed up yesterday,
& Jesus was in the room.
I missed his entrance,
but he saw me-
He put the felted womb over my head
& asked me if I was warm,
& did I feel comfortable?

An Introduction

Man, the imperfect librarian.
Man, the retired salesman,
with neither money nor clothes.

When it rains,
It is better to sit with the salamanders.




January 27, 2013

Sorry for the Broken Mirror

With something lit there in my threshold,

(LIGHT)

In the hands of the Man-

In the doorway.

This erratic block of business-

I implore you to file by the brick, mortar, and stone.

Brought about by the beat Afro-SUN.

Sweet SON,

Dear prophetic construction in the bowels of my womb-

REMAIN THERE-

In some passage,

Wholly inaccessible to Man,

and the fruited brim of His gracious wine.

Let me teach you-

Guide that sight-worthy palm,

From skin- HEAT

(SWEAT)

For- brought by the breeze,

The final motion-

Called upon by the humble weight of THAT hand,

THIS mallet-

and tender aggression.

And, if by the window you are using in the barren light,

clouded by His punctuation-

From lips,

Brought to the lips- milky digestion.

(INTENTION)

Sweet SON,

Bright deified daylight-

“BE CAREFUL”

As these eyes mock the paid preacher who prayed for MY deceased SUN.

In malicious irony,

From the bed where you lay-

“BE CAREFUL”

By that doorway,

begot a Man.

A nimble soapbox,

To preach a new science-

A base methodology by which you examine my wonton breast.

He-

     Merely takes, by the negated game of give and-

From the depths of my breached movement,

I do not ask, of you SON-

Simply because this is not about being Woman,

And you- My delicate man on the edge,

Being this desolate body of some charming, curdled body of WAR.

We Didn't Mean to Spray the Car

Orion rested where my eyes stopped,

By the street-

Waiting for the words,

“This is mine.”

Saying the words,

“This is mine.”

This is mine

This is mine-

Looking for the words,

This is mine.

Printed on the side of the street,

This is mine,

and in stenciled charming purgatory-

In stink-

We smell the evidence of obvious wasted time-

We-

Who drink to the mantra:

This is mine.

This is mine.

This is mine.

This is mine.

Bienvenue

Cheers from the avenue,

“BIENVENUE”

There are stop like that we run through,

Reciting the mantra, “BE HERE.”

BE HERE NOW

With vigor-

And rigid lines set in sort soap stone,

Carved by the phallic old man with his pompous hat askew.

Ne’er prepared.

The allegory of Man, Wife, Child. Child, and War.

This two-a-day dose of invention-

Where my simple shoulders make you my pimp,

and this face-

Pockmarked and beautiful becomes Woman,

Taken atop the trapeze stand.

And residing holy, here-

In this haus of tool,

Rotting wood and broken lipstick stains,

This agent of agency,

In Black tie, corduroy and lace.

Masturbating in the mirror with his eyes closed,

And a pencil.

BIENVENUE.

Sweet Prophet

When, in the dawning of the wholesome shift,
& when we walk along the country road,
Will you find yourself alone?

Among me and the Magi-

Oh, Moses of the modern midnight,
Moses on the mount-
Fear the destiny of freed man,
Left in the hands of freed men.

We- who walk through the pillared gates,
More mauve than pearly white,
Join hands with he creatures of habit,
Those who have so aptly waited in vain-

Oh, lost Israel in the hills of highway nine.

Do not stand in the shadow of you,
or Her.
or Them, if they are in the mind of he who will not enter,
and he who preaches and does not know.

Tho-

Sweet prophet.
I urge you to go.
And, in the crook of your arm, maintain the marks of our humble entwinement,
and, walk the streets where we once found peace.
Oh, Moses-
wait with the sparrows where we will never go,
in the Heavens we will never know.