>The moon reflecting off
Do not forget how much I
>let us remember your brightness
the church all linked and singing
how you wanted to be remembered
as a woman, let us angel-paint you
dead now, only 38 days old, still
venomless viper, nothing left expected
always the strike, the thoughtful coil
before you bit the choir’s heart.
>
staring up from the ash, smoking, in the shadow of smoke, remember:
like my tongue cut the corners of unutterable white skin
our bodies at rest, hurdling into each other
a light-tight spasm bucks yr breast
then
biting yr lip, you float above yourself
straddling a breathless gush
of heat and beaming, i
am trapped between
a choral aggression at first, fingers
roll through yr hair, lay stave winding white then red
then
i pull your mouth into mine, grind
my scripture, brittle, useless but painted and performing
paralyzed by the size of the stage, though the theatre
its polished oak columns, hirsute crimson curtains
soothe, sings gently while it burns, quick heat
pushing through the rafters, everything on fire
oh, now memory rising.
>but at first only
the veins in my arms
were that color
the bloated purple-green
of hard work, strained through
such a perfunctory grate
now the cloudless
sky repulses an oily
mesh, not for the eye
not for the heart, either
but beating and cracked
an insidious rewind of
prone and gagging mix
the owled mountaintop
and her shaking skin.
can not, will not, must not
snow-heavy air livens an upturned palm
and the blind, cowardly thing
slinks; hue spoiled by rye fact.
>keep in mind
the bed’s soft billow
its thoughtful handsome
need. why wouldn’t its
desirous fit surprise
supple dreams wide never wane
stuffed gagfull with dead feathers
poking jolting inconvenient jeering
kingdoms tatter torn by a ghost
no surprise this other latenight life.
destroyed at the beck of white noise
keep to your wheat-soft side.
>54 / 119 / 131 / 147 /
2:05.5
>“Put this on your status if you know someone who has or had cancer!
All I want for Christmas is a CURE!
♥ Dear God, I pray for the cure of cancer. Amen.
(93% WON’T Copy and Paste this,
will YOU?) i am NOT one of the 93%..”
Rats snack in the cupboards
on clean, masculine crumbs
traps clap in the wall
but the blood never runs.
>here, black streets constructed on white thighs
both hands eclipse a slim aperture, jubilation then
with the knowing, no
shake nor shore
a push, profiting.
>The primary concern is tone, the shallow vanity
Of art’s trenches, (The financially successful artist can go on forever:
“Wall, whisper, meat, a murdered mother
Many moths trapped in dual headlights
A single loose tooth, ‘How ugly!'”
Watt’s white linen piled in context, a
One-deeper layer of nudity (unresponsive
Basement). Returning to tone: I am tempted
To say, “Perfect!” standing deeply in the mouth’s shadow.
These people seek, have sought no easy escape, being never
Dance nor dancer, flame nor dusty flur, but a slowly fading
Memory of a dream in which the footprint is blown
flat
by a cool
night’s
breath
Her thigh immediately, a
Shapely garnet castle led up to
Quartz and feldspar tumbling.
>for Sarah & John Currin’s ‘The Pink Tree’
You
& Yr sister apposite the choral and
how can the artist describe Yr nude
Smile but those — who’s pink automatic
( You )
& spindly hand will reach &
prick this GALArific rainbow & precise arrangement
unclothed-coy, supporting her pivot
You
& historiographic radiance, shies
supplying future circles, licks of lights
the black sky rising, Yr comparative breasts
You
Washed with pale, easy brush strokes
adoration of the hands, possessive silken
& skimming — four fingertips at Yr hip.
