you scrape reduction’s black jelly;
when you despair, o gods,
you lead us to war
—
The work dies.
The sun arcs.
Still the rainbow
indicates
—
An absolute desire
bantams
And it is all I have,
this wrinkled duct
pity for which burns
only lightly, a bit of stick
of tree’s sap, on the
tongue
—
Would take a blotter
and see the sun’s
black dolmen itch
down each of its
four faces, would
know tragedy
and absurdity
like heads packed
in cabbage leaves
what to do
Oh what to do
—
When we
get closer
when the
ring is right
there is a light
bent against black plates
like black linen drapes
stitched from sea
to sun
to sky
—
Breathe a moment
of your silence meat,
sayeth the world, and I
will cut a gash so deep
splendor will show her neck,
rushing up from the dark earth
O rims of scalloped fountains
—
And there to find
there to find there to find
power’s
drooping pupil,
heavy-lidded disdain
ma mère grapples by the mane
and would open the vein but
drags us off into the dirt
—
Everything is dust here
and violence and without
the resonance what the fuck
—
Is there to say
and
Give us water and food to pursue our tasks.
Help us not become wards of the state,
impoverished, homeless, destitute, crushed
under the heel, buried in systems, imprisoned,
dead, hospitalized. We die die die. Our dogs
will not walk themselves after we go. Our bodies
will not burn themselves after we go. Our apartments
will not pack themselves after we go. Instead,
bright ribbons of work, tangled in our bodies,
will be vomited out and indeed bright ribbons
will be vomited out. In the meantime,
the light’s eyelashes open and close.
And in the meantime, work and reprieve.
Lie down; don’t lie; lie flat; lie still. See these
books bound in itching white leather? They are
your life. And each feathery page, lifted by hot wind.
O summer air, o gardens, o seasons o châteaux.
The glaring day, it binds, o occurrence, o soil o soul.
so strange arrangements
So strange arrangements stamped
with Valentines where the red is pure,
and sundown’s thousand pillows
are an access of forgetting
—
An access of forgetting,
love takes you, arm in arm;
the entire city goes barefoot
across sundown’s red mirrors
—
Where are the clouds
leaner? And a thousand faces greet us
without a single prayer. And to yield
is yielding to Abelards of forgetting
—
Where the brick is eaten by cloud,
Where are the pears white?
Where are the pears white?
Where are the pears white?
all the deadly ones
We want you to kill us, our
—
Time has run thin, let the young with bloodlust in their
mouths, watering their mouths, come to interview us, who
are fresh game, where
—
The water seems sunken, a storage unit of brown boxes, we
will sit, under hot lights, spilling tokens from our heads, ready
to burn like summer shuckings, white ears of corn white ears
of corn
—
Who then will release us? Who
then will
—
Release
us?
—
I had a tower, it was many-hued, it played the world, it played
the game, it followed its name into transience and death, o
crushed horn, where are you now, dripping
streaked maize along the streets
death is an answer, stop
—
Filling us with such slop, poète
maudit ain’t got a drop to sell
and wears yellow and orange
striped socks, dancing on hell’s
zebra mirror
the dog
is huge as a roll
of industrial rug, stretched
to fill the 77th floor of a high-rise
in Manhattan
—
The dog’s heart
is connected to a spine,
a flight of bone steps
extending down to a stomach,
taut and empty
—
The emptiness of the stomach
makes a paltry music, pulsing
and twinkling with repressions,
a swelling as the long cavities
of muscle flush, pull, and bend
—
The dog tabulates,
a hand nonchalantly tallying
at an abacus drenched in saliva and foam
—
The pink and black gums
conceal the gold tooth of an infinite, irrepressible
failure of savor
the ground beneath
Can I get at your knots?
Will your slits have me?
Who says your armpits are full of folds?
And your wrists, colored paper?
And under your tongue, colored paper?
Will you bring me back to myself?
Was I hard to find, rolling in saltwater?
Did you feel my burden, two buckets
full of clay? Didn’t you want to shrug it off
for a moment?
Wasn’t this summer, season of rest?
Were the dead restless in the tall trees?
Were the young bright in summer’s doorways?
Did the water burn brightly in its jugs?
Where was anyone to help us?
Where were our fathers and our sisters?
O my friends, o my love, we were ours,
where was the breath and ground beneath us?
the leaning
Was the pleasure of the air I took
like rope ladders like fountains I
could tell you of leaping animals
leaping to their deaths I could tell
of formative deaths that led to
leaping I could tell of monsters
pinned with ribbons and the face clean
as the body of a wasp and taking
the pleasure of the air I could tell
of fortresses covetousness and care
I could tell, too, of divestments, of
I-am-not-ours, of we-are-not-theirs
and of raw linen pinned with hours
and skin shining with sweat I could
tell of the work done here on our behalf
how it smiles I could tell of the water-
wheel’s laughing and the flags’ laughing
and of the hope of not seeing I am the bend
in the road that cuts the burden in half
I am the avenue that die
s in jubilee
I take the pleasure of the air in tresses
there are storms up ahead I take the water
I take the fountain in my mouth I take
the way
flags
Choose a flag,
one that itches, raw
glass, and draw it close
—
Comfort is for those
whose eyes can shut but
all wallets close at once, all eyes
—
All hands all hearts, blood
chambers—no-
thing speaks,
in the vast hall nothing speaks,
the air conditioner blows and the glass
tomb’s color is perfect
—
I would bend you toward speed of day you
are not yet aligned you
are too slow slow slow or or or
you’re not quite yes yes yes and must
align perfectly with break of day,
unwrapping inch by inch of stubborn canvas
to winds that would clean their teeth on you
—
So the day is murder;
still there’s a bit, here and there, to say to day—
say ears are enfolded listening, colored flags, yes
again say nothing and no one
is ever enough there is no time yes yes never sorrow
never enough
full day
Time to lend you an apple, o
Marianne, so you can eat the season
straight off
—
Break for me just a bit, at the knee,
let it roughen from your voice
say what there is to see
tell us what’s in front of you
—
your stomach holds the dice
your blood’s a weather vane
your head’s an untidy box
—
What miracle everything’s soft and bends for you
be happy today is full day, saturated
nothing else be happy, your loved ones care for you
be happy, the light shines on you be happy
you are in your body, a great boat on seas of flesh
and of work, be happy
be happy
be happy
ad absurdum
I call tricks
because I don’t have enough for a lung
or a heart or a shard of black bowel
so who are you to fling chips, remain
—
The desert dweller, tenant of dry places, I like
the gold tooth tucked into your skull
and the ravenous wool tooth
tucked into your skull and the Nile of leather
tucked into your skull
—
Fix me a raiment of days, I wait
for your shuckings of heat, your turn, I await
your motive, a dog’s gums drawn down, tongue revealed,
I refuse to dream anymore, heat gathers around
my teeth, I am close to speech’s refusal pour
some water from your horn along my ribs, can’t
—
You see that the days are exhausted, that we
move from island to island, that we will be left
to be picked at by gold birds?
—
Who flings meat at you to continue
who has your best interests in mind who loves you
who lends you time who worries about your health?
—
There is a chorus of burdens that would restore
you to the earth but the fountains’ brilliant black
holds those birds delicately at the rims and they
very nearly dissolve in the light and what they
sing anyway is abrasion
bruckner grew up among weevils
Will you consider my standing?
Bruckner grew up among weevils
—
Where, when do I stand?
Not him not her not this but that
not opened and so closed.
I work and in my chest
a typewriter ball spins its horizontal eye,
leaky and smearing horizons
—
My pleasure is the game and love of summer.
Let there be games tonight and studded answers,
bistros and men with red shins.
Let Sin’s ladders climb to leafy heights.
Our stomachs grin.
The table spins
like something called
confetti or “carefree.” To-
—
day day day the Drs. smile at me, much
to their (and my) surprise. And at evening, brown
sugar cones and a walk through the park, a red
Comme des Garçons heart
on my sneakers
dayrun
Then time to crack the trunk
and spill diamonds, yellow yellow
yellow the worst is near the worst
is here snapping at
the foot of the bed
—
You
have been reduced,
Kierkegaard and Heidegger in the dayroom
overlooking your friend’s
professorate, chatting with Isaiah
—
Say
you have been mawed, sealed
rooms, laptops and observation,
tell the court, tell the court, tell
the court the prodigal is
star-stitched
—
A waterfall spills at his neck,
crystals crust, wintry, the side
of his chest, there
is something speaking
along solid faces, gather
—
Me toward gather me toward
gather me toward there is a tower
between my index finger and middle finger it
is delicate as paper and sucks up ash
and bores a soul in my temple
those you live among
I have no camera
no game no tent, no word no mon-
strance no belt, no vent no succor,
no assuage no guilt, no music
—
The boarders they play games with you
those whose stomachs are full
of steaks they toy with you, the house
is full of toys
—
And each day, crime is easier, those
I live among, those I live among let me have my
speech, I can
not speak rocks in oil flounder
in oil and window pane almond al-
mond who is fragrant enough to live
among? Who is fair enough to be set beside?
—
My days are broken
and setting
and more truthful
—
The light despises me food
despises me the word despises me
I am no fate
I am no fate-in-his-robes
no styled light today I am bled
I see the rainbow’s metal blinds open
I am time, purple gold dripping out, sail-
fish fans monstrance monstrance
monstrance
I am no ointment here
I am no bruise-paste-of-day
in winter with starred standards
In winter with starred standards
behind which the sun flows
In winter with starred standards
behind which the sun flows
In winter with starred standards
behind which the sun flows
—
I have no horns, I cannot molt and
leave you horns, I have
no horns yet from the curled
lead you draw off milk
I have no horns for you you you
the gold in
withered horns you you you
—
O my love you you you
and the shelf in your chest is marble
and the heart that burns there, red velvet
and the flame that knots, clear
and the water that drips, blackest
and the music the music the music
the blood desires nakedness of every sort
What nude will take you soon,
if not by the wrist then by snaring
the hook of your open collar; noon
desires nakedness of every sort
—
The blood
desires nakedness of every sort,
as at city hall, faces freeze,
nearly a hundred watchful faces freeze
and stare, and under your checkerboard jacket
you, a child, are a surge of blood among children
—
The windows are kites but we cut
their throats first; the vultures settle
on window frames window
frames window
frames
—
The meal’s a bowl of pastel-colored
potatoes; with every slice their color
bleeds and unravels rings that are
undone
—
Mothers among us,
examine your hands; a serpent
kisses the palms with a light
flick of the tongue
—
No hell-of-disdain has poured
its pastel concrete; still, bitter rinds
of twilight stagger down our backs
crowns
One gathers and spends
some night. Some night
reaches up in flutes of
oranges and becomes
some night. A licorice
of tongues licks from the
chandelier. The bridge
to joy is treacherous.
Where is the harvest,
where the meal? Our
cousins find our names
too sweet, our meat too
sweet, our sweat too c-r-
o-w, too c-r-o-w-n, our
necks too much like c-r-
o-w-n-s. O forked alliance
blessed with droplet red
and fever, we are citizens
of the world, and of sun
then from the bronze world
Then from the bronze world
fountains and caves,
brown roses bent
to peaks of bone, beaks
—
Knock
on the glitter of fountains.
Should it be blood
if we are eating
—
Sweat, and honey cakes
blister what we arrest
of thought, sun’s
mess of red spaghetti?
—
Messes call down
Scarecrow Page 2