I've been to a cock fight. They are exactly what you imagine them to be.
Waddle 5/31
In the pit lizard-legged cock
slashing the second all flesh-ripping
flow of blood and puddling
Naked skinny green-feathered bird is
open-mouthed a silence
hushed scream blocked
by chanting men
In the pit filled with sand
blood black absorbing drop of water
in sugar you pick it up
This is a marble of violence
Cockspur slashing at chests beaded sweat
floating in the air calmly in stasis
landing as rain on deserts
31 May 2010
30 May 2010
Prickly
I went on a pear kick for a second.
The weird texture of the fruit is fascinating to me.
The shape, color, smell. Fascinating.
Prickly 5/30
You hold the pear in your hand
and it is mutable the skin is poking
Quicksilver flesh rising in peaks
soundwaves on water a green range
filling the spaces in your hand
The weird texture of the fruit is fascinating to me.
The shape, color, smell. Fascinating.
Prickly 5/30
You hold the pear in your hand
and it is mutable the skin is poking
Quicksilver flesh rising in peaks
soundwaves on water a green range
filling the spaces in your hand
29 May 2010
Microphyll
Microphyll 5/29
It curls, bobs and darkens, it shakes off
eat slow weeping ferns in balsamic
We discuss sex, how it wraps us around it
convinces that it burns unless we water
A tight rope of hair barbing on ankles
It unwinds, pressing the leaves from its door
and passes into sunlight
On the end of the fork it drips, lazily unwinding
as if the sun were under the table
It knows which direction it's going
small black spores forming on the leaf buds
Knows how to let go
It curls, bobs and darkens, it shakes off
eat slow weeping ferns in balsamic
We discuss sex, how it wraps us around it
convinces that it burns unless we water
A tight rope of hair barbing on ankles
It unwinds, pressing the leaves from its door
and passes into sunlight
On the end of the fork it drips, lazily unwinding
as if the sun were under the table
It knows which direction it's going
small black spores forming on the leaf buds
Knows how to let go
28 May 2010
Confessional
These strange surrealist poems are what I consider dreams in word form. They resonate in a strange deep place for me. There are connective threads in them but they are tenuous.
Confessional 5/28
I say I want curtains to keep out the sun keep the rooms cool protect ourselves from summer and the bracing swarm of humidity
Dark wood-lined and smelling of oranges the box is always this damp - a tomb - a calm sigh from my mother - a metal grate a preacher
I crawl through the sharp inclined tunnel of blackness in my sleep and see into a valley of searing greens there is a tree filled with pears
What I mean to say is that I find myself thrashing in water while I sleep that the water is my bed and my bed seems to be made of bones
Pear flesh feels like sand soaked in cherries - harder - pearls - smaller - spider eggs - I feel like I am popping everything
And the sun always comes in year round it is light - a growing thing - but it does blind
I am n love with the idea of being in love I don't understand a picnic from a parade - there s a rose bush taller than Empire State and I am clipping the thorns...
Confessional 5/28
I say I want curtains to keep out the sun keep the rooms cool protect ourselves from summer and the bracing swarm of humidity
Dark wood-lined and smelling of oranges the box is always this damp - a tomb - a calm sigh from my mother - a metal grate a preacher
I crawl through the sharp inclined tunnel of blackness in my sleep and see into a valley of searing greens there is a tree filled with pears
What I mean to say is that I find myself thrashing in water while I sleep that the water is my bed and my bed seems to be made of bones
Pear flesh feels like sand soaked in cherries - harder - pearls - smaller - spider eggs - I feel like I am popping everything
And the sun always comes in year round it is light - a growing thing - but it does blind
I am n love with the idea of being in love I don't understand a picnic from a parade - there s a rose bush taller than Empire State and I am clipping the thorns...
27 May 2010
Overstand
Santa Fe is a strange place that one strongly loves and hates.
Overstand 5/27
Santa Fe is a penny
A penny burning in moonlight
From here is it a puddle oozing down the foothills
Gray water filling the Rio Grande, flooding farms
Farmlands that are filling with locusts with man faces
Doll-like crawlers wearing green saris
Hopping clipping the wind and running the rain
Santa Fe is a brown square
A square poking out its sides
Lurching towards an ocean never seen
Again with water filling one thing emptying another
The ebb of some copper moon holding the last fall grains
A rectangle nursing burned grasses
Suckling arroyos
Santa Fe is a while
A whole sinking into mesa
Sharp sides pulsing the horizon
A gouge in landscape huge stroke of black coal
Against the redding night
It hops on all fours and calls like a whore
Her eyes done in spirals
Santa Fe is a fetish
A fetish doll on a shelf telling stories
Little clay-faced babies sitting on its lap
It whispers like a barn owl the hair on your neck stands
Feels like a shadow over the sun
A sudden rush of cold in the dry beds
A supporting hand on your neck while you sleep
Overstand 5/27
Santa Fe is a penny
A penny burning in moonlight
From here is it a puddle oozing down the foothills
Gray water filling the Rio Grande, flooding farms
Farmlands that are filling with locusts with man faces
Doll-like crawlers wearing green saris
Hopping clipping the wind and running the rain
Santa Fe is a brown square
A square poking out its sides
Lurching towards an ocean never seen
Again with water filling one thing emptying another
The ebb of some copper moon holding the last fall grains
A rectangle nursing burned grasses
Suckling arroyos
Santa Fe is a while
A whole sinking into mesa
Sharp sides pulsing the horizon
A gouge in landscape huge stroke of black coal
Against the redding night
It hops on all fours and calls like a whore
Her eyes done in spirals
Santa Fe is a fetish
A fetish doll on a shelf telling stories
Little clay-faced babies sitting on its lap
It whispers like a barn owl the hair on your neck stands
Feels like a shadow over the sun
A sudden rush of cold in the dry beds
A supporting hand on your neck while you sleep
26 May 2010
Marinate
For many years I had a reoccurring dream where the room I was sitting in would begin to fill with water.
Every window and door would suddenly be fake. Painted on. As the water rose, I would take refuge on a floating couch. The room would suddenly be very tall and circular shaped.
After a very long time of worrying about falling in (I don't know how to swim) I would reach the ceiling. I would suddenly be pushed into the water. The couch still beneath me, holding me up enough to touch the roof. The water rising. My eyes the only thing above the surface.
Then I'd wake up.
Many years later I had the dream for what turned out to be the last time. Instead of apparently drowning, the roof suddenly flew off right as I was about to go under and a man with wings saved me.
I like to think it was Birdman.
Marinate 5/26
Do you have years - ?
Raise arms up like a bear and spin
slowly - this keeps the past at bay - sit
down sob until someone (mother) takes you home
Mirrors reflect - they bundle the twig
faces we make - hold them behind silvered surface
until we least expect - releasing self-ghosts as if
fire onto bathrooms - bedrooms - countless rooms
Do you have years - ?
That memory of drowning
where all is chlorine blue - sulfur smell
in your lungs - kicking disembodies legs floating -
A cylinder room with a cap top that flies off
and fish that slowly - there may be a shark - somewhere
a fan blade set to slice 'n dice
like a movie - some (derivative) nightmare - !
Do you have years - ?
Then you get to relive this each time you look
puffy-eyed - twinkle less - you
standing in a toilette in your own water staring
In your eyes - you can see this now - sudden
rolling credits - a trampoline of guest stars
pasts are bouncing around in your eyes -
you can name them - your mouth could begin to move -
Do you have years - ?
Every window and door would suddenly be fake. Painted on. As the water rose, I would take refuge on a floating couch. The room would suddenly be very tall and circular shaped.
After a very long time of worrying about falling in (I don't know how to swim) I would reach the ceiling. I would suddenly be pushed into the water. The couch still beneath me, holding me up enough to touch the roof. The water rising. My eyes the only thing above the surface.
Then I'd wake up.
Many years later I had the dream for what turned out to be the last time. Instead of apparently drowning, the roof suddenly flew off right as I was about to go under and a man with wings saved me.
I like to think it was Birdman.
Marinate 5/26
Do you have years - ?
Raise arms up like a bear and spin
slowly - this keeps the past at bay - sit
down sob until someone (mother) takes you home
Mirrors reflect - they bundle the twig
faces we make - hold them behind silvered surface
until we least expect - releasing self-ghosts as if
fire onto bathrooms - bedrooms - countless rooms
Do you have years - ?
That memory of drowning
where all is chlorine blue - sulfur smell
in your lungs - kicking disembodies legs floating -
A cylinder room with a cap top that flies off
and fish that slowly - there may be a shark - somewhere
a fan blade set to slice 'n dice
like a movie - some (derivative) nightmare - !
Do you have years - ?
Then you get to relive this each time you look
puffy-eyed - twinkle less - you
standing in a toilette in your own water staring
In your eyes - you can see this now - sudden
rolling credits - a trampoline of guest stars
pasts are bouncing around in your eyes -
you can name them - your mouth could begin to move -
Do you have years - ?
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