summerside

when we step aside from the edge of the roof

when we see the dove’s tail masticated

when the northern light is inside an aquarium  which we did not

build out of our own volition when we are well-silvered

as slivers of ice on the windowpane in the light of a midtown moon

when we are impossible to sunrise when we angel over the guard dog

and recite what songs we know when we are driving far

out of town in a worn out camaro when we grimace

at the hounds that run beside us and keep up the pace when we get

all into it and car-dance with our hands bare and hanging

out of the windows covered in three days of dry monsoon grime

when we stand in the barren riverbed and bribe the sun

for a liter of sweat when we return and the rooftop

is inaccessible when we prop the fire door open with a brick

and stand on our hands over Manhattan when we are given

a chance and say fuck it when we light up in the corridor between our rooms

as if we have nowhere else to go when we have nowhere else to go when

we are grown out of our clothes and our ankles hurt from the low draft when

there is an awakening and we are already falling

asleep when we abound when we revel when we get the things we thought

we wanted because of somebody else when we get somebody else and fuck it

when we bring back the fertile crescent when we are across the range

from the incumbent when we die of exposure and resurrect as philanthropists

that give to war when we war and simulate when we begin to sing and lose it

when we surrender to the disease that everyone loves

when we love like god and feel like cinder when we touch each other

in the middle of an electric blowout when we say the fire in the kitchen

was not our fault when we brake so hard we spin and don’t vomit

when we are dizzy and belittle each other for nothing else

but a compulsion to speak when we are spoken to

and don’t respond when we crash-land in the desert and binge drink urine

from our dead horse when I say I’m out and you won’t let me when you cut

deep into your shoulders with old haircutting scissors when we

allow for being stranded but somehow keep

moving when you are silent for days on end and won’t open your eyes all the way

when we stand in the cathedral and vandalize when I savor my own blood

in the enormous puddle I’ve fallen into when you don’t pick me up

because you’ve been handled when we aspire to walk aslant

but get stung by wasps in the process when we are nursing

when we find out there are too many of us and get a gun

when we play Russian roulette in the mausoleum when we get kicked

out when we are in prison for getting our asses kissed when we sever and stray when

we mistake spice for saliva when I say you’re out and you let go when the ring

finger dangles in front of me when the doors are happenstance when we are final

and there is no other way when we glide as if the air is too thick for us when

we lower ourselves carefully until we are under when the moon is brighter

than before and we can see no stars when the rings of Saturn are obviated

as obstructions to life when we harangue the firmament for always being above

when I grow maudlin and you imbibe when the center has vanished when there

was never a center to begin with when in the middle of lust and song we are

scattered with a fly-swapper when the police is made of eight pounds of clay when we

mold and decrease our volume when we have no symptoms of having been here when

the divider is always nil when we find a place with no willows as far as the eye can see

(for apartment 22)

Mouth Dance in a Constricted Space

 

Soaring morningnight, a small

break in my destiny, when

the bird wings sing with wolven

howl and the train compartment

asks for the kind of luxury

we cannot live up to. Our

unfall on the grounds of being

well-traveled. How many

people have stood on your chest?

how many as jagged in their

feet as I, how many have you

set it up for, the seclusion

only true obsession can grant?

You cannot sequester me, but

the whole intruder I aspire to

grow into; a mouth can only scream

into another mouth’s ear.

We are sunken when allowed for,

shriveled when we see a life,

singular only when we are

the world and its savior.

The half-life of my utterance

has no dependence on my name;

you’ve been wrong before

as larks are when they wake up

too early. The moment hasn’t

a close unless we say it as it is.

Have we been capable of

fruitfully not lying?

I don’t believe a word.

An Omnipresent Machine.

One time I made this. It exists in physical form, as a hand-made book. It has scotch tape and bad prints; it is meant to. Sadly, the text is a little hard to decipher on here. I am going to see if I can re-post it with a higher rate of legibility (otherwise, see the full thing here; you can zoom in etc)

I would like to make something like this again, but instead of placing it here, in the US, take it elsewhere. Take it to where people forget to go when they think "Europe".

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?