talk to me: notebook page 3

discharged, slim narrow blue
white the revelation is electric
there, in the swallow still lingers
illness, and paper work and
long hours chanting out
childhood until it is vespers
the Lords Prayer, a hand
washing a hand, and the clean
dry winter that comes crisp fresh
and never ending, I breath deep
and feel each crystal forming
the solidity of health
in the caverns that once housed
ghosts, art, feeling- the power of
need and the hand extended,
the haunted mind reaching.

there were duck- then none.

the snow
belts against my face
a pleasure unrackable
standing east, that
is knowing where i am or
where i am going-
i feel maybe- ok
about the prospect of
being lost,
the weather
agrees
and becomes
colder, lonesome cars
dwindle until only
tow trucks, plows and
ATVs wheel the street, me
and a dog or
alone, the stars only
speaking any easy
english, vipers- holy
twist around me,
and i handle them
the past
wells up like strychnine
and each drop kisses
a open new eternity
in the crisp supernatural
evening, my jaw begins to
numb, to freeze,
and i call out
in mumbled incoherent
ecstasies
for the return of
some thing, my frozen
hands can't seize.

8 o'clock dandelion tea

there are two stars which are
planets and the moon, and
the sky should be unbalanced,
but instead blinks
radical symmetry
i look up
from the dogs i am
walking, and
hear past the wind chimes
on the porch to the
church bells, evensong,
mans verse to man
and i switch these lights
so fast it is
this thinking; renamed
and under the influential
strobe, stone
moves left then right,
and grows hips, swaying
to the chimes and finally lips
to sing out all the bells
ever rung.

permutation read as cream

Here there is
an electrician
a snow storm
the sun-
in the stone of a peach, the
eye
envies the pear
its complete
edibility-
complicit soft lips
and the mind
lingers over her, the subtle
spring of
life
its self
but my hand stops
at the
end of my skin, and
my heart
the bar car drunk
full
of love and travel, can go
no further,
and the looseness of
the world
unshackles completely, and tragically
fear grips me first- instead of
the intense
liberation of falling.

1989 tile project remains

i have anchored myself in anger-
chains pinch the mind
to bleed- a longing
for rest is created
where the iron and
enduring skin meet
the eyes swing open
like arms to embrace
anything, to over paint
this wicked feeling and
fall like Rome in fire, or
meteors of light in to the
oxidized night of pain, a
grooved phosphorescence to
pale the world of ache- still
words rumble and form solid
identity like this-like brick
left to cure
in the sun, and
build a person slowly to withstand
wind and gather a cellar of sand
only to fall prey to its own
construction, the echo chamber
the halls meandered, that collect something
more insidious than rain, that busts
the walls out, and needs to be build up
again.

one.

...when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one’s alone.

-Anne Sexton
THE TRUTH THE DEAD KNOW

You swing open a smile
and the sea opens inside me
the corpuscle of doubt turns
to periwinkle and dives through
cool October like a stone
my hand fits like
a small mercy on your hip
and lingers its ghost there
when not there- haunting
bone white light days,
with longing-
your eyes
smile and open in morning
with autumns unseasonable
warmth and the heart
that once died warms in
the last groans of summer sun;
your beauty and grace that
rises one full turn to
raise me up past the
dark brick and concrete of
the city and landscape a
man, from tidal rocks and sand
breathe- espuma life in to me a
instantaneous anemone of love
as constant as the days
rising light and hope
and life beyond anything
the dead may know-
because it is love that haunts me
here- and I long to be haunted

some [warm] body only yesterday

immerse Berrie
and purple throttle
choke
silences the engine
on Balmer Road
out to
Springville & Harley
Festival- twined
to the rush of
streets warm with
late season sun
and bleeding
asphalt, there the
contingent
burrows dark ribbons in to
hearts- promised
to heresies and
the distilled smolder of
each cubic centimeter
chromed- holy and unforgiving
the mistakes the flesh
has made:
gravel, granite, grave.