South Beach, 10:29 p.m., 12/28/2009

The moon reflecting off

Do not forget how much I

Abhor my love for you

Gathering dust on yr shelf

As you once collected roses

Red petals dripping

Impossible pollen

Each flower so beautiful

I've seen their shapes cut out by a star

On one of the planks above my head.

how you

let us remember your brightness
the church all linked and singing
how you wanted to be remembered
as a woman, let us angel-paint you
dead now, only 38 days old, still
venomless viper, nothing left expected
always the strike, the thoughtful coil
before you bit the choir's heart.

biting yr lip

staring up from the ash, smoking, in the shadow of smoke, remember:

like my tongue cut the corners of unutterable white skin
our bodies at rest, hurdling into each other
a light-tight spasm bucks yr breast

then

biting yr lip, you float above yourself
straddling a breathless gush
of heat and beaming, i

am trapped between

a choral aggression at first, fingers
roll through yr hair, lay stave winding white then red

then

i pull your mouth into mine, grind
my scripture, brittle, useless but painted and performing
paralyzed by the size of the stage, though the theatre
its polished oak columns, hirsute crimson curtains
soothe, sings gently while it burns, quick heat
pushing through the rafters, everything on fire

oh, now memory rising.

insomnia

but at first only
the veins in my arms
were that color

the bloated purple-green
of hard work, strained through
such a perfunctory grate

now the cloudless
sky repulses an oily
mesh, not for the eye

not for the heart, either
but beating and cracked
an insidious rewind of

prone and gagging mix
the owled mountaintop
and her shaking skin.

can not, will not, must not
snow-heavy air livens an upturned palm
and the blind, cowardly thing
slinks; hue spoiled by rye fact.

keep in mind her softness

keep in mind
the bed's soft billow
its thoughtful handsome
need. why wouldn't its
desirous fit surprise

supple dreams wide never wane
stuffed gagfull with dead feathers
poking jolting inconvenient jeering
kingdoms tatter torn by a ghost
no surprise this other latenight life.

destroyed at the beck of white noise
keep to your wheat-soft side.

Abstraction for Song

54 / 119 / 131 / 147 /

2:05.5

Improv for Paranoia, or How to Make a Better Cancer #1

"Put this on your status if you know someone who has or had cancer! 
All I want for Christmas is a CURE! 
♥ Dear God, I pray for the cure of cancer. Amen. 
(93% WON'T Copy and Paste this, 
will YOU?) i am NOT one of the 93%.." 


Rats snack in the cupboards
on clean, masculine crumbs
traps clap in the wall
but the blood never runs.

Improv for Hands

here, black streets constructed on white thighs
both hands eclipse a slim aperture, jubilation then
with the knowing, no
shake nor shore
a push, profiting.

On Linen

The primary concern is tone, the shallow vanity
Of art's trenches, (The financially successful artist can go on forever:
"Wall, whisper, meat, a murdered mother
Many moths trapped in dual headlights
A single loose tooth, 'How ugly!'"

Watt's white linen piled in context, a
One-deeper layer of nudity (unresponsive
Basement). Returning to tone: I am tempted
To say, "Perfect!" standing deeply in the mouth's shadow.

These people seek, have sought no easy escape, being never
Dance nor dancer, flame nor dusty flur, but a slowly fading
Memory of a dream in which the footprint is blown
 flat
  by a cool
   night's
     breath

Her thigh immediately, a
Shapely garnet castle led up to
Quartz and feldspar tumbling.

untitled 12102009 2:28 p.m.

for Sarah & John Currin's 'The Pink Tree' 

You
& Yr sister apposite the choral and
how can the artist describe Yr nude
Smile but those -- who's pink automatic

( You )
& spindly hand will reach &
prick this GALArific rainbow & precise arrangement
unclothed-coy, supporting her pivot

You
& historiographic radiance, shies
supplying future circles, licks of lights
the black sky rising, Yr comparative breasts

You
Washed with pale, easy brush strokes
adoration of the hands, possessive silken
& skimming -- four fingertips at Yr hip.

Improv for Sarah 1

a cobbled pack of birds 

no flutter, nor flap, but vibrating

mastering the clouds with such fidelity

then abandoning the tapes, driving on

what could they caw, this cawing crew
that would address sincerely your soul
metastasizing warmth despite the tapioca snow
slippery slush sours Freyja's fair footfall

cooking down the stairs, garlic hisses in almond oil
by sexual addition and with sloping, angled intention
the knife, stand-in for the after, kisses a perfect sweetness
her round, naked toes breach the kitchen, contented breath




*(Freya (or Freyja) was a beautiful Vanir Norse goddess of love, magic, and divination, who was called upon for help in matters of of love. Freya was the daughter of the god Njord, and the sister of Freyr. Freya herself was loved by men, giants, and dwarfs. By sleeping with four dwarfs she acquired the Brisings necklace. Freya travels on a gold-bristled boar, Hildisvini, or a chariot pulled by two cats.)


**(this is a really meaningful poem, it has has a definite A-part, B-part and an epilogue. it transitions. it's inspired by beauty, literature and life. (specifically Sarah C., Nabokov and the sort of spinning direction our world is always taking.) i am devastated in doing this, but i will take this parenthetical as opportunity to apologize to people who don't get what i'm doing. sorry. this poem helps me realize i actually know EXACTLY what i'm making every time i choose this word or that word, piece together this sound or that, omit a comma or enjamb this, end-stop that. i love every bit of what i've made for you to read, so enjoy it. or else you won't.)

Response

For A.G.,

What
does it mean to have a radio hit?

to only define Her by the air
between toes, curling and stretching
call this a dance, and Her Suitors will, at least / beside Their unhappiness, be happy

a little dalliance (grows from cracks in the carpet
still-packaged rivers, and what do They mean? what
do They want?

Improv for Couple B

Night settles a hand over the asphalt, its nose upturned
Later, riffs above and beside patches of moist grass
So much artifice: the almost-matching mirrored stars;
                                                buzzing suns-silence
Affected, adjunct and bluish hues blinking for window watchers

And, up through a mesh of towering light, insulating pitch holds
Beside somnolent little lies.

Improv for Couple A

Somewhere inside this empty desk
there's breath, where meddle meets death
and wild wind, that hungry scratch, will catch
Couple A's blight passion coyly exposed. so Couple A will smile,
knowing
what Couple A knows

Individual 1 is satisfied / Individual 1 cannot not sleep the day
but, Individual 2? / so determined to mine a final rhyme

so tired, so in love
so in love, so required
such requite, such warm fire
burning each to each, tracks lost on love's lost beach.

i won't do this very often, but...