Contentment

It surprises me how we fell into each other’s lives
in the patient span of seven years. We began with resisting
the pull of loneliness. We prayed
to the gods and let our bodies be eased
across easier bodies: all those people who demanded so little
for slivers of affection. Whose name do you find yourself calling
amidst those seasons of entropy? Remember the taste of all our secrets
done right? I fervently believed my heart
a caged animal – its hooves pounding songs
of longing: the sweet lack
of self-control. How you stood
unflinching when I confessed my eyes were blind
to the color of kindness, saturated with sighing wavelengths
in a universe eager to keep its distance. How you held me
as I shook, frightened of all things good. Your hands steady
as my bones rearranged themselves to accommodate this enormity
called love. Our shadows titans resting
against the white wall of your room.
I reach out to touch your face and my limbs grow wings
wide enough to map all the landscapes of happiness
we planted in our sleep. All those golden seeds blooming into beauty,
certain to rip our bodies apart.

It’s been awhile since I updated this thing.
Poem above is going to come out in a publication with some of my newer works sometime soon.

Also, you probably know whom this piece is about. Heh.

Despair 101

Seek out the light
leaving your lover’s eyes. Seek the song
strummed from the remaining
fingers of a god, cursed and withering
in its quiet temple. Seek the solace
offered by a kingdom
of stone. Seek out a cure
for the many antidotes of loneliness. Seek out the perfect
bottle more potent than all the whirlwinds stirring
your chest with regret. Seek an ocean
that will deny you all your desires
of drowning. Seek out the absence
of memory: landscapes exempt from time, wine
sweeter than that fatal lie. Seek out your name
in the alphabet of forgotten faces.

Misanthrope

Spot a stain: a trap,
oh those parts torn open
at the nape. Impart ire: aim
the sin at home. Spit
the ear. Hear harm, stare
then stir – his ripe heart
a nest of heat atop a train. Spite
the saint risen in resin. Spin then pine,
parse poems, host those horns
sent on a spine. Set hope
to emit another time:
Oh, Era of Haste:
snare this star, this prism- pith
its sore, sore arms so spent-


It’s impossible to be completely honest, completely happy; therefore slink and sink back into the warm familiarity of being without

Innocence died screaming ♪

Because I was reading Eliot again.
In a minute there is time    
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.  

From The Comprehensive List of Lines Left Out:

 

I am from the refusals and misdirected musings of past loves. Burnt letters, poems too long, one photograph too many, notebooks filled with theorems and equations that flew further than their predicted trajectories.
/

in exchange for both my eyes. The continents went dancing
while we were out. Submarines were invented
/

We constructed ways to ease everything in – the world of the body built on knowable signs: blood smears lit with starry skies under the microscope, currant jelly stools, apple core lesions; bird’s beaks, footballs, ground glass lodged in your lungs, steeples reaching to the sky of your throat, stepladders rising from bowels – all answers hailed by the advent of radiation: a world bathed in black, white, and gray. The body’s topography mapped in entire by density and ingested dyes.
/

They said: Write. Make dying
beautiful. Someone else said: Stop.
As a reflex I let my fingers search the cold wrist
for a pulse, but felt only the pounding
of my own, feeble heart.

Revising some pieces. Here are some things I cut out, from various bits of text.

連歌

Conceit

There is a place for me somewhere.
To evade death: tell the body to stop
living; last forever as stone.
Wait for a better time. Disregarding the absence
of stars as disaster, we drew them all down
a net so vast it could harness heaven.
Then say the words to come back,
to feel the air again: how breath blooms
from a pair of calcified lungs, all our lives
sweet static from a dying phonograph.
The songs told us how it would be,
lyrics eventually lulled into a language
only dust understood.
The house we lived in was never cleaned.
The windows were always closed.

 

Renga with Monch. In which we just line a yellow paper with lies.