Tuesday, March 11, 2008
FALL OUT
Am I that transparent? I thought
these asbestos overalls were a good enough
cover for a first date going south in a hurry.
Do we have a safety word? A shut-off valve?
I thought my death-by-horseback-riding-accident
could make some pretty good press.
Or are you going with a “nuclear incident?”
That’s just like you; head straight for
the scorched earth-and-vicious-spin-cycle, and let the fall out fall where it may
be able to poison a few other footprints
along the way. Your finger’s on the trigger.
I just smile, politely.
Monday, March 10, 2008
WARNING PSALM
You must not keep still, but vibrate, like any given crop or mineral. At least these things understand that
the center will hold, that the molten core is a far-off
goal to grow toward, but whose outskirts offer extinction. My God, that any of us makes claims on the absolute.
That only comes after the disaster. While we're in it,
we're as naked as Kansas. Do you begin to see that in our role as survivors of nothing, we give up
everything? The flash of eyes, the groping reach---truly, an international moment. Do you begin to see?
That in the muting of our differences, we might
lend ourselves to silence?
Sunday, March 9, 2008
SACRIFICE
All the dead men in their fancy waistcoats flip you the finger, say, “Give up all hope.”
The cannibals are dining strictly on their own
and the lion lays down in King Tut’s country home.
The sun is always shining but you’re cold
to the bone, and you’re buying steak knives over the telephone
and you’re eyeing the lamb
and the cub and the kid
and you know you love them
but something’s gotta give.
Friday, March 7, 2008
NAMELESS
Five dark winds collide, and from that, you begin
to weave and fabricate excuses, trying on one voice,
then another, until the right one fits. You are finding
your orbit, the anxious crowds in the air you breathe.
You are an incendiary cross-breeze, a napalm of second guesses. You lay the blame, seed the crop.
You gnaw the fox’s haunch, and call the help line.
You can’t help but wonder about the blank spot
on your diploma, the “X” that marks
the beginning of all things…
Thursday, March 6, 2008
TIDAL
Guide me through this open mouth, the tidal scream,
a gathering of waters here at the broken sore.
I am slick with algae, my arm is up-thrust, I am a statue sunk to the bottom of this most available ocean, a convenient back-drop,
something to tell stories against.
I am the Roman, with nothing left in store.
I am the aqueduct that goes nowhere,
the barber with dull blades and the hot smear of shaving cream and throats
that live to tell the tale.
I am the sliver on the ice-choked river, the clanking of loose change.
God, believe this:
I am you without a name.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
DREAMS OF EMPIRE #3
Look! It is late afternoon, and the sun breaks open
the window, lighting for a moment what is usually invisible, gold motes clutched into twining cloaks.
This empire of dust, which settles overmy kitchen glass, my scattered, entrenched laundry,
my eyelids as they flicker and doze.
Through me drifts the Revolutionary War scene
that actually happened down the street, the first fissures of the Manhattan Project,
Boss Tweed’s popped vest button long since
ground down past the salt of the earth.
I blink my eyes again. Just dust.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
-
THE DEAD ARE THIEVES, TOO They’ll pick your pocket clean, like that Ozark you left by the river. How many times do I have to talk to you? ...
-
CIVILIZATION AND ITS’ DISCONNECTS Turn off your computer. I know, I know. I will cease to exist. I will return to my cave of shadows, ha...