September

Desist, desist:
There is no allaying
the sunset,
to destine this crumbling palace,
Palestrinian resonance, elsewhere.
Din, din,
the aura that what
arrives leaves hazed,
a hazed shaded sound
light in the depth of glass,
dim, dim,
till there, naught,
and no one nor zero,
but an echo: the dwindling given,
the coming and going
goes without you
or your aid.
And why should it not?
What might be a silhouette
but to fade?

Listen

abandon all hope ye
and shut up
all our gods, in wayward beauty line,
Sanguinis Domini,
the abbatoir silent autumn
of pusillanimous chatter, toward
the inane, forge of rebirth and redeath:
the violence and the redolent
echo and echo and echo
the fossils and diluvium
the piss of episstemology:
to be drunk till full, and confused
and old, and uninterested in it

 

Harvest

between paths of grasses
in duskyeyed dirt fields

he walks down the sand and
naked in four o’clock tides of silence

summer’s pain fades into pools
around the wings of wading birds

claiming the mangroves’ salt-weave
in guard of air beneath the ground

to breathe the palpable rising
risk of the losing instant

Chattanooga

restrained, I arrive
in Chattanooga, and you
to breathe you
in paroxysmal egg orbit
a swooning focus yet
slippery undined and
from a dainty grip I reach out
in my hand to it, to swell,
to sail my face through it,
to forgetting
to the gut of love and
the lightheaded cycle of
your elliptical eyes
and jaw’s angles in smile’s dawn
the light of Tennessee

traipsing down the humid asphalt
for the purple flowers over there

across the grass and

as
grass
old songs playing the winds

, pull
flat hands bent out at the wrist
on open arms bouncing against ribs,

seraph remitted from hell
maybe
if we weren’t

afraid of
thorns
, growing,
we’d live

amid the purple flowers

Mathematics

what equals one,
less than this smile, this rosy möbius lie,
of the esoteric and shy, the undone
screeching idiot, like the owl across a blood orange
and purple twilight spilling obscurity
and color, into the dumb gaping mouth of Minerva,
all slinking through in mismatched plenitudes
of infinity aleph slimy gradients sliding out of place
drifting on the glassy irrecuperable Lethe,
that absentminded Charon gondolas along
whatever one was, unaccounted, wrong, to
gliding open sets, open mouths and deltas, to spill out
errant and uncanny, traversed,
the obsidian shimmering pupilblack night, incomplete,
of the eversetting, receding eye, defeat
by a grin or a hug or a look of disgust and confusion,
slaked in nonsense sentiment and the irredeemable
meandering orbit in meandering orbit,
uninterpreted
in lingering paralipsis, the sexiest of speaking figures

After some glasses of wine

hand from hand, after some glasses of wine,
whimpering lilac, bloodshot
vision, curled sky,
swirling and gracing the wretched
in the streetlight, liminal, draped
in tattered clothes and tattered smiles,
which let go to new coagulations,
draped on us weak flowing
flowering fags,
splayed on the pavement,
exhausted, we forgotten to march on,
passing in the night like distant neon through fog,
the vulnerable, falling snow to caress us separate,
in cold serenity, while whispers redound, life wanes,
snow become sudden ash
scattered aftermath–
purplelipped beauty, distorted in
steps on the crunching snow,
burning and then fading,
as the rhythm of life repeats and we walk
as slivers of desire rend the light

Topos Paraph

where again, is the place where we can swap knowledge for love?
in doorways opening upward
in downward spiraling
cartographies drawn in sweeping gestures
by hands that clench the plumes of the skyblue breeze
taciturn and lovely
calm mourning of the snake’s last word
coiling text with ash of absent fire
twisting position in the tenuous
tenebrous dawn
of speech, of the canal’s reverberation
outward toward the winedark sea
of sinew, obscurity,
peeled dissolution, slippery discarded
in the wispy chiding,
the teary echo of our sympathies:
can anything of worth, the impetus
in the chambers and currents of pigshit written
ever call in the hour of dawning desire
the intensity of its cold setting contradiction,
recall it from the future to pass to past—
or is the doomed reversal to repeat?

Continue reading

Burial

shit spilling on our bones
like spaghetti sauce
roots of flowers
raping our mouths
like tentacles
barnacles for eyes
in anguished ecstasy
fluttering in empty holes
smelling of earthy incense, earthworm incest
between our swampy minds:
all stuck in turbid languishing slime,
on the dark of bodies,
where we might find one another in love,
infinite prolix proximity,
in the soil.