Fall

inspired by S. Parajanov


fall

coerce a passing body into single-

handed combat

with an apparition visible

only from a distance,

unfolding the mass

into the pavement,

preparing the participating limbs

for burial the ancient way

but forgetting the coins

and the pyres and the boats.

in the event of failure,

redefine fall to fit the course

of action.

*

songbird

summer night

in the erstwhile city

of Souvenir,

now known as I can’t hold you anymore in either one

of my palms, not even both.

the sound

of a whistle

louder than a train’s,

but of unconfirmed

origins. startled awake:

Derby, Connecticut.

formerly known as

where you lived.

the sky is filled with them,

these feathered obituaries.

*

branch

one bloody mary to a mirror

on the bottom of the barstool,

two, to the one that keeps the hallway

devoid

of secrets, three to something

more inward – here she comes.

fighting her off

from a heightened state.

her state: invisible.

how did we climb

the trees so fast in the nude

and tail-less? breaking

under her weight.

taking me with it.

*

water

the truth is,

I have never opened

my mouth.

not even to slow things down

a little.

here is where we were

several steps before

assuming our current

cumbersome

shape.

here is where a fall

is the only way

to start moving,

where I can see my other,

the ephemeral one, and

touch it, almost.

here is where it won’t

count, no matter how

many times you say it.

afraid of water,

she is.

*

sunflowers

call from a bed-ridden

collection of electric

currents. the whole city

at the funeral.

having removed

their bottoms,

arrange the coffins

on the bare ground

in concentric circles,

collect sunlight

along the outermost

boundary. wait

for them to sprout.

this is how you grow

these things full

of obsidian spades.

*

ground

under

the helm,

the man who

had to jump.

deep is the sky

when it comes to.

deep is the soil

we put him in.

a sprinkle of

sodium nitrate.

three bloody marys

over his grave.

*

blood

air raid passes by

en route to the next

available set

of customers.

we are in tune.

old Armenian song

about lavash bread

hanging down from

a small child’s forearms.

pulp them until they

swing like undone

braids. stay sanguine

through a blasted

head of somebody nearby.

these dreams I have

don’t let them

get to me.

*

nighttime

better to stay unclosed

sift the air through

each hair in the nostrils.

a red moon coming

to the new and improved

horizon near you.

haven’t seen

that one before.

she is riding a scoured 

horse into the lunar

reflection, won’t

let it dip into the Hudson

where we stand

repeating after me

her summons. roots

appear where

our toes touch

the grey water.

*

mineral

sodium nitrate,

the covered salt

in the midnight

of southamerica.

travel to the other

hemisphere

for this one, but avoid

traditional means.

announce yourself

to all apparitions,

even the ones that

come out of steam-

powered whistles.

bring me a souvenir.

put it in my palms

and help me grow

things from shadows.

*

farewell

a boy has a dog

and a house

on fire.

she comes

from the smoke

says nothing

but everything

gets colder

and the ash

is nowhere

to be seen.

a boy has

a dog that

no longer

listens, growls

at the ground

pushes stones

under our shoes.

this is all your

fault, he says,

your whispers.

*

worship

bow to the bread,

bow to the tiger,

bow to the birds

that shit the sky.

in the city

sometimes

photo credit: Tanya Keilani

we are welcome

so long as we have

no shoulders –

are to bow that low

to the concrete wall.

throwing crops

against it.

bow to the color

they leave behind.

burn the city,

and the ghosts stay.

bloody mary,

bow to her when

you say her name

to the mirror.

bow to the hell

that sweet-talks us

with promise of warmth

and company

of greater men

than the ground

can contain.

bow to the ground

until we are in it

and have no

further to bow.

*

stalk

in exile to this

side of the country;

silos in sight

at every turn.

blue is a home

of the head

cultivator. we are

to wash ourselves.

a stable of dogs

in fury over

the netherworld

smell we carry.

staying here awhile,

aren’t to mind

these canine

superstitions.

day in day inside

a day swelling

to night. no mirrors

in the farmhouse.

 

*

effigy

more than half the time the invaluable beasts are only worth a few well-placed cents; given the situation bird habitats have become prime real estate in new york city where people have been shrinking accordingly and drying out like Anjou pears; how old have we all been, how presumptuous of us to spend the time inventing simulacrae like a tidal wave; my my my my my the cow says only that, we’ve been mishearing it entirely.

we are calling up

a few ghosts

to join us at dinner

so we can

watch our food fall

down right through them –

a rare and inconsiderate

pleasure. drink up,

the aviary will

be lovely

for consumption.

we will place parrots

by each mirror and have

them speak two

words three times.

dear sacrificial

parrots, we will say

to them, it is an honor,

and secretly we’ll

think how good

to have stopped

losing one of ours.

*

travel (for a.a.)

A great many things

coming unnaturally

to us.                                                                                    

our small

steps in the kitchen

around the grime

we did not create.

leaving

here for a trail

of phantoms.

we will break

the bread

we are given

with unstained hands,

will swallow

the mountains whole;

and the birds won’t mind

when we release them

from our throats

as voice. as the church bells

pounding for the dragon slain.

as the knight

in the tiger skin.

as our bodies remade into

what we won’t see.

we’ll get thin

and ephemeral.

we’ll stop asking for visions.

*

sail

grey, grey, the invisible

hands are ravenous

for shorelines.

grey the water when the rain comes

grey the sand under no sun

grey the dusk.

the small boat’s boom

swinging in inexperienced

wind over us as we bow

and glance sidelong.

who’s steering us

grey the bridegroom

the specter, grey.

coming back around.

grey the song from

some time ago.

where does it come.

bloody, my mary

how will you find me

in this grey fog?