Wednesday, October 27, 2021

Cold Autumn Day

 

 

I.

this is
what
words
amount
to—
festivals
of ash,
collapsed
into urns,
held
up by
timid folk
for the
bold to
scatter.

 II.

Poems are train-wrecks
            that move— to stand
on tracks, to do so solidly, is
            suicide of a high order—
 
to die by force of wreckage—

 III.

On why it has to be that writing
comfortable garbage is the inevitable
byproduct of living comfortably, with
each fresh hell I wonder why the hooks
towards artful utterance are set this
way, & why I must become such an oyster
just to confer into a leaking bucket,
insecurely hung from abraded cables,
a blue droplet not even of blood but
of nectar, or wine, or whiskey— 

IV.

Times you get bored
with the process, but
 
worse are times when
words are little deaths,
 
wrung out like sheets,
draped over hangers,
 
out in a damp yard on
a cold autumn day, as
 
wind rises to pin them
to your hopeless breast.

Monday, October 18, 2021

Apparition Poem #1112

 

 


#1112

I.
“Fuck art let’s dance”
only we didn’t dance,
we fucked, and when
we fucked, it was like

dancing, and dancing
was like art, because
the climax was warm,
left us wanting more—

how can I know this
dancer from the dance?
Brain-brightening glance,
how tight the dance

was, and the sense that
pure peace forever was
where it had to end for
both of us, only your

version was me dead,
after I had permanently
died inside you like the
male spider always does—


II.
Pull me towards you—
woven color patterns
create waves beneath
us, tears buoy bodies

to a state beyond “one”
into meshed silk webs—
not every pull is gravitational—
as two spiders float upwards,

I say to you (as we multiply
beyond ourselves) “those
two are a bit much, their
sixteen legs making love”