she says i can cook vegan
she says savory
nutritional yeast flakes
harvested for good health
our face is probably the only thing of that scale
crushed red pepper flakes
our face obsessed in its desire for duplicate
i didn't choose this sacred hardware
our battle ax-thin XXX bride
prime butch dress cascading salvo
cachaça bottle thick hairy professor
in the window sill
she says the advertisements
to the confident are coming to
advertisers shake you awake
i’ve stubbed my tone again against the edge of some other universe under the weekly farmers market near the free whiskey samples retired dentist who summers in santa monica who explains volatilization charcoal filters in his coronavirus mask the perfect gift for clark
i’ve taken off again around pluto in the byzantine eyes of man nothing to do wife away
i’ve glanced out again from my crashing self sea
i’ve named myself again spoiled oil spilled spinning top approaches edge gravity angel’s share bitter ship gasping heir to a ruined king- dom of collapsed arteries rough concrete sidewalk gone feral over rough dog- wood root
So much light, dear oblivion, night after night; I offered up my body. You refused. I drank. Begged, really. Said my dreams, you don’t belong here. Some countable mornings ahead, crouched in the internet’s dark corners, hands reaching into prosaic brightness, not to gather, but offer: News spreads of a virgin conception. And so much light.
Prayer peels soul from body. Robin-eyed memory of never known. The scent of winter jasmine, he writes. I ascent, with neither knowledge nor trace experience. Mouth crawls with the acid taste of spider webs. Begging, really. Dear Oblivion, I continue asking the drain — conduit from, passive voice, channel away — to do the hard work. Three-fourteen a.m., a mournful eight-legged poet struggles to drag a stone amphora the size of a casket across the backyard — no vacancies.
“It was not gay, that life.” You can’t “make me small,”
you “can’t put me down” or take away my job
I am immune,
although it is not gay. Why did we come at all,
consonant to whose bidding? Perhaps God is a slob,
playful, vast, rough-hewn.
Perhaps God resembles one of the last etchings of Goya & not Valesquez, never Rembrandt no. Something disturbed, ill-pleased, & with a touch of paranoia who calls for this thud of love from his creatures-O. Perhaps God ought to be curbed.
Not only on this planet, I admit; somewhere. Our only resource is bleak denial or anti-potent rage, both have been tried by our wisest. Who was it back there who died unshriven, daring to see what more could happen to a painter with such courage.
Source: Berryman, John, and Michael Hofmann. The Dream Songs , 2014, p. 257.
the gunpowder if it ever exists dries ready full-mouthed and mush his
mission soon ends with no criteria sì, quella spiga— what athletic
power passed the hum of squirrely / selfish putsch down— if darkly uplift
the self gets righteous right to the bottom— quick, much is transparent
and not raised against the real polemic fear yr inbox as good as yr last
intesa inteso— i feel hiss intestines / push out against— the night
sufficient still bent between hiss pinching stamen & inject the sniff pop of
I decided to use the Pine Barrens site as a piece of paper and draw a crystalline structure over the landmass rather than on a … sheet of paper. In this way I was applying my conceptual thinking directly to the disruption of the site over an area of several miles. So you might say that my non-site was a three dimensional map of the site.
Buca il geranio la maceria, rissa
Maria Luisa Spaziani
but only you love sheds on you love sheds on you love shed on you
abuse faith this dog you love sheds on you love shed on you
hearth nebulous parallax hearth
&yet diagnostic dark drinking dark drinking dranking drunnc
always night always night always night &yet
death queer hearth nebulous health nebulous hearth &yet
again night of the long commercial night always drinking night & shhh upon rigid compass shhh abstract shhh