I.
The end below where you were reading
continues where brush strokes stroke
a horse of yellow halos... halos not attached
to anything ... should we not be bothered by things
of this century. Sometimes description makes me
not believe. That is best to go on.
Getting to endings. And I do love a punch.
But, they leave me nowhere particular.
"Prizes when acid joins the pigment and the sap has been drunk."
Anne Sexton
The hardened myth
still slicked and hanging on,
a tongue wagging jackal's
black stole.
I busted you following the ants
an absentminded custom
where a woman tree and a widowed home
share earth like an equal heaven.
I saw your hair turn when
you asked me for a heater.
Your mouth shivered, a milk tooth
lost like a forest dweller
grasps onto a hollow arrow.
"The affair began in the Heaven of the Suite of the Thirty Three "
The Dhammapada
I wondered about what she could have said
about the day Adoring with Flowers when she fell
from a nimba branch with her offering set out to tremble
My lower back is a broadband disentegrating.
Some sporadic gesture of a last tic,
stiff and stuck in signals.
Such a range of frequencies
you can hear a small woman firing herself
inside a stove.
Like a Best Western elevator
levels us flat
to glimpse this dark
& brief lobby
after the stretch cables pull us
& let us run to an edge,
a rubber tourniquet returning
our heavy flesh swelled
from its cut off high.
I'm thinking of putting a picture
of a bed over my bed
with my need for decision
filled with wood in an open shed.
Blood's backroad then a sudden red branch
breaking up inside a kaleidoscope.
A meadow of loose colored chips
rotating inside a shepherd's sunken
purse; the possession of its waiting between
sad mirrors in the endless
changing heat of a mother's forehead
like a stain.
The morning in gloss, its hiding young.
The woodpecker's loose
robe in halves, until it writes
a paragraph inside a velvet pocket.
A fat lipstick smack for a head
took my throat when it flew.
Fall comes on like a coma
a burden on the grass
to dress it, in quiet
the despair of a tortured debt
is blossoming. A flowery death
song of a thief waking me;
I leave with the coiled tear
and the cursing spit
from the widow's fire dream.
