Thursday, October 28, 2010

The whitest noise: a lullabye

Bombs, screams, then silence: the lullabye:

sheet music his body heard—nerves

ivy-curled: eighth notes; intestines barbed

in stacatta; heart trebled in staff

Bombs, screams, then silence: the lullabye: the memories

composed in his body—recorded

the oldest song: the whitest noise

till the child no longer/but always

having so immersed in music been

knew how children’s sleep was made

To the sounds of whole notes—thrown—

four beats from the shoulder, screams, then silence

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

If it were Father Earth

If it was Father Earth would it stop this/ Was Father Oak below
Greatfather Moon/ His speckled kingdom/ Would it stop

this bone drill of oceans deep/ If Father salt Father sea
If boyfish glinting along faults/ Where Father Quake cracks

open/ Melts us down/ If his firepot would steam us new
If it Brother Wind was /Would it blow this

place cool/ Clean/ Would it stop

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Shame—the obese lover, leaves crumbs in the sheets, her fingers goo’d

Shame—the obese lover, leaves crumbs in the sheets, her fingers goo’d from honey drizzled inside each muffin cran—where she spreads her self, munching. Then insists I buy sunglasses for my face.

Shame—the grease patty, woke hungry again, her stomach puddled out she says, “What a pretty sidewalk,” all speckled with shattered suncaughts. “Isn't the ground the most beautiful thing you ever saw?” She loads the question down. “Welcome, welcome to your downward eyes,” she continues, “Keep’em covered. Keep those wets raybanned. When folks tiptoe up—their calves clenched along the brick, I’ll throw my invisible, cloak it over so they won’t know

we’re here. Keep the dogs away. Those panting, hands-on dogs. I’ll crack warm yolk. I’ll fill each seam behind the fridge, creep beneath eyeboards—inside the jaw, where I folded myself in. –My white blended into each pore’s yolk, each yeast pocket –milked. In a day’s work scrambled and creamed please pass the salt I own this skillet. Don’t need no oil. I’ve caked on years no brillo. Your eyes on flame burned. Blood in your face drowned Moses, don’t laugh. In hot light, my feisty burrowed in wets, plunger-lipped each place you open/you slurped noodles . I squirm hatched in your bag—my little, little burlap."

Monday, October 18, 2010

A verb's word

Well, can’t lift my head off the page—tattoo’d

my eyes look out: roll right, roll left.

The sanded plain. Blurred blacks in corners—

most likely the subject, the object

(with all-do-respectively, good sirs. )

Though like I said, I can’t move.

None of us can. I’m merely guessing.

Merely forehead stamped.

Blackheads we conglomerate meaning,

serve eyes who typewriter-slide in socks—

nearly-snake were it not for the hawk hop--

the give away: the one-legged-jig at the end.

The heads who slow their beaded tickers

at the occasional: don’t trip-on-your-

momma-comma; my gist-fist period;

the crusin-for-a-bruisin dash—

scarecrows point them onward.

Yes—onward from parental punctuation/genesis capitalization: all lies!

i want to Verb up! these perfectly spaced out times!

mr romans chains have rusted

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Food chain

Bottom dweller, you blue veined will-be-
chewed. Blind, little bird: fanning the
sundontshine, your backwards scuttle
through sand auras, endless illusion
of movement: the ocean’s fossil
deciding how to be remembered.
You with your tentacled ‘stache tickling
perfectly-rounded-discards--the wastes
you nibble till cheaper with the head
they’ll flashfreeze you by the bag: the pinch
twist tail--your shell off’ed in one, easy
pull, makes their fingers itch.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

The pianos, who do not learn boundaries

Consider her manatee, amongst the silver slenders
She with fin in air, kin to all wild, all still-prone
holds her breath, lets you see

her insides--ribs, bolts, strings: the inviting math
of pleasedo slide your tips along slick maple,
come round those grand, for-touching curves.

Pull up chair, bring your hands.
Warm those tusks, those losing trees
carved for the girth she asks

of your fingers, of your fingers playing there
to make shake, make call-out-God,
make hold-the-note,

so you may both leave silence, sing
so you may both be mended.