You are lovely.
I who was lonely for no one
now lonely for the love of fire on a hill
Caressed, as it should be
unstopped by building or man.
Out here the newer fabrics defy
the sun.
Bright green thong
blotched skin shoulder harnesses
lazy material
barely
breasts
wedges of triangle blanch privates.
Green-necked John Travoltas.
Every modern female has tattooed eyeliner and a waxed mid-riff.
Across the slang of beach I walk.
Here for least terns, driftwood and oblivion
underwater photos
shiny black clam shells,
their bluish inner glaze flapping empty
saltwater butterflies.
Not dumb
Wish to think
Not speak.
My heart’s Beast.
Out of chest, Into mouth. To pull
your tongue
makes sense.
Leap
leap into your mouth and pull out your tongue.
I leap to the streets and
Torture Unopen
I want to fling rooftops but cannot see pictures
Hear
Meaning, I cannot
You’re handing the window
this feeling.
Honesty waves
Ledges. To fling myself over
You, sounding
and sorrow.
Music
not words
Backhands
the dying
That my grandmother’s hands were as clean as glass shown on a wet
sink-side
is a remembrance to me.
Snapshots of flowers and garden
trees to fertilize, and for planting.
There is a window in the front room. The room is little light tiny.
Her place is at the window, standing up,
as if looking out
takes all her strength.
She watches magnolia leaves sifting in shade and
takes account
of how the azaleas are coming along.
The phantom masses handed down
The siphoned sounds into my brain
And they took
Hold
I
Could not see
I could not see
There is too much butterscotch in the cherry ripple
But what if this is the stipulation,
An invitation to Not
be
To Not exist?
i’m excruciatingly lonely
+ the only thing i can think of
is a piano.
Oak leaves dangle in sunlight, perturbed as children.
A mangled black lizard lies helpless.
Creases of mud fold into tire tracks; purple flowers take over a rotting cornerstone
of what used to be
Mexico.
Wonder who dumped their car off that ridge? whose the wasted shotgun,
the dirty sock?
There’s time to think on miles of straight up
and me, clambering from earth to sky.
Noise is the thing
talking.
The thing is noise in the background
always
Someone else’s radio
when it shuts up
The static does not weep.