alone, now, you rose up,
held in humus milk,
caterwauled to the cacophony
of fluid strewn with silage—
with a coronet of frozen dark
and sequined stars held to
your head perched low,
Blue pickerel weeds snarled
glossy leaves into your hands,
caught in the swath of dragonflies
and great crested newts—
an almost brooding sound,
less wind-swayed in its journey
around the mist-rinsed pond,
bayed a rustle fainter than earth
over your skin: a pelt of wiggles-
suckled, algae surfaced, delicate light
hatched in tapestry of perennial
sandy loam, gilded with bare bones
of your city that went underwater—
Poetry of the Non-Prose Kind
alone, now, you rose up,
A herd flees,
fords the river’s sun-bright passage—
A white incised line follows a bone burin—
To accentuate the counterpoint,
a sudden turn to adagio—
A gesture preserved, a gesture alive in the act of making a mark—
Every father is
at some point
Saul with a fist
full of javelins.
Both of you stop this.
Stop hitting yourselves
with tennis rackets.
A vacuum balloons in
my chest. Presented with pricks, I
kick. A pilum lets fly,
skids on concrete in a comet
of sparks. My autoharp falls
dumb. Outside, meteors, metaphors.
Each fallen god looms larger just as
the windmill blade on a flatbed seems
taller than the windmill and the bough
the gale cracked off, wet and black on the
ground, is tree enough and more and
the Ding an Sich is not for you; you get
only one of its narrow dendrites, filament-thin,
reaching high, hungry for signal.
All things are under the wings of doubt—
cattle and the fruits of the earth,
men and women,
the menstrual flux, the flow of milk
Between her legs,
with her hands, she summons her health
as if it were flowing from the knife,
the foundation of loss.
Some men came to a stream.
One of them took off his clothes
and went into the stream
and tasted it and declared that it was true.
Without words, action is secret.
Out of the water,
the man’s hand suddenly burned.
Under the threshold of the door,
the bones of a name said
I have my own hands, and a little hole,
unknown to touch or look.
I have seen the fields, the air,
and been within the year to prove this.
They shit too much,
the swallows nest
above the mail box
with black eyeliner
or wings on the eyes
of Elizabeth Taylor
who would be jealous
of their blue brilliant as a
bought jewel from the
mouth of Richard Burton.
They strike in dips
and ignore the beautiful
women who catch them
and use their forked
tails to pencil in eyebrows.
hiked skirt, alert
atoll, coral lace bleached to pieces
blasted to patches of cover, duck
under the fabric of safe damask
hidden features of the past
spiked earth coerced
from circle to interrupted girth,
fetish of flash, of fried fish
spurted to Piscean heights
ceilings of an active sex
dispersed. She was a pretty young thing,
One Medieval value
Papal Borges Loyalty
Submit Two Prince Jon
Pre printing press Brut
Of course of coarse
Finally fallacio is free
From bastards &fallacy
from “Two Young Lovers”
This all day
ignore the hate
he paid for it
the money extravagant
down toward him.
to burn the night
won’t be safe for
I’m sorry Listen.
this mess is
the only home I’ve ever had
from “The Pink Lady”
distinct the feeling
I could neither move nor speak
he was gone.
I had fallen silent
had actually happened.
I stood out
a sharp startle
he terrified that
My experience was
a sensation of being followed
mother experienced this many times
It became common for each of us