WYB Outtakes Pt 3

Grace

I am a limited body. I do

not encompass much, &

my ace-in-the-hole is how

& why I know this (from

long experience of waves,

which have taken salty

thoughts from my brains). 

I know vastness, being little.

I know defeat sans groans.

Being pure is what saves.

Out at sea, unnumbered

uproars roll past my ears,

like the Danny’s bar-keep’s

innuendos like thunder.   

Cauterized

I can't feel a thing but pain.

Everything I say's a blunder—
form and feeling gone insane—
heaps of snow inside my brain.
She's my loaded cherry pie.
I'm not worth her sliding doors
unless my eyes get cauterized
and moving sand's a wooden floor.
It's all been said except for this—
that I will out the road I missed,

scattered signs, paraphernalia of

our last night’s pilgrimage past

the bucks hitting Bucktown’s tow-

away zone, down-bound baked goods.

Worn Yesterday

To circle you from inside you,

from inside glassy globes of skin

offered up in mute scream to

shared sharp pangs, how a lock

might close shut in this, how it

could clasp us to a firmament,

how in arching up we forge bliss,

down, & to be gone is concupiscent,

& come is gone, white-woven in —

what’s still unaccounted for is

how when I leave this place again

for Philly, I’ll look for you on

Main Street, Manayunk, find

myself at Worn Yesterday again.

WYB Outtakes 2

Bon Appetit

Would that you were closer,
that we each could roll over

and beg to be petted, loved,

rubbed & flown over, above

what keeps us planted in dirt.

I don’t mean to call you a flirt.

I don’t mean to tell you OK.

I can’t think of what I can say.

The omens say Bon Appetit—

omens are closer than meat.

What murmurs from Wicker

Park’s main street as we are

up semi-fucking at dawn, city

birds: they portend concrete. 

Fear-Dreary Philly

No little lame balloon-man

whistles far or wee, or even

has balloons. I sit near the

fan, feel like Dante's son
plucked by this city of

dreams into Hades. There's

no way this can be anything

but rote, my hip routine,

& even a fly's anus looks

more succulent. But, what

the fuck. I've got memories.

As I anticipate the wideness

of your limbs, quiet or not,

the shore I stand on is silent.

Three WYB Outtakes ('07/'08)

Stark

You’re like an obsessive

astronaut: coveting space,

empty vacuums, stretching

outwards around you, deep

as wolf-hour dreams, dark

as bottoms of rocky peaks.

I live, breathe, in your sleep.

My need: toothed like a shark.

There is no reconciling this.

Uneasy space is rank to kiss.

I’m lowly wise, a slug, stuck

to woody surfaces, rocky

bottoms, yours. What luck:

between your legs is bold and stark.

Fins

Your scales are wave-hewn.

You are soporific as a siren.

Around you limbs are strewn.

It’s fin to tail chess. Pawns

move in an undulant fashion.

I have nothing to trade you

but a marching soldier’s gun

I know little of. I know what

to do with him, loosely, but

really this air has me kite-high,

ready to blow, high to black sky.

Then, on the shore of your

wide world I kneel before you,

hopped up on sedated nerves. 

Floss

I'm Eternity's pilgrim, I'm

hot enough to broil flesh, I

am made one with Nature,

yours, every time you flip

over for me. It’s cynical to

speak in these terms, but

I’m captain of a wet ship—

you’re sub someone, slut.

It’s a big identity mess. It’s

me angling to parse an angle

not yet gelled, where there

is “we”, & we’re newfangled.

It’s a bunch of bullshit.

I’m floss on thorns, tangles.  

From Mortuary Puppies ('98/'99)

C: (finding a razor, preparing to slit his wrists) God is a spider piercing heaven with venom and menace!

A: (knocking razor out of C's Hand) Fuck death! Death is the refuse of flies! (the rest of the group forms a semi-circle around him, begins falling at his feet and feeling him up sensually, lust in their eyes) Death is the pulse of underwater nowhere! (the group begins to sex-pant) Death is the thin arm of ridiculous waving! (the group begins to climax violently) You're all a bunch of babbling crabs! (he breaks off them and they whimper) Let us ride. Let us worship a lesbian gopher. Let us spit our vehemence. (he takes out a copy of the Bible from under the candle; in it are five copies of the poem "bible"; he distributes them; the rest of the group forms a line at the front of the stage and recites this poem)

B,C, D, E, F:

bible is stilts for mind-midgets,
brassy as a barnum poster, three-ringed
bible is black and white silent film
with Valentino Christ presiding....

A: (regaining his composure, lighting a cigarette suavely) Terrible, how our needy flesh imagines satisfaction in external monuments.

B: (rising, kneeling before A) Shut your eyes and listen- the thread of children's voices will hold our hearts in place, cozy as a hammer's nail or tire tracks on blacktop roads.