Wednesday, November 30, 2011

November 30 2011 A Sistine Chapel Kind of Morning

It is no surprise that I am a fire
raging without any borders, consuming land
at a heartbreaking rate, devouring the
loose timber within, exhuming the heat that
abides in things, this polished ruby of flame.
What is shocking is the spark that smolders.

Everpresent & the abundunce of dry
kindling that propels me. It is God's breath in
my nostrils feeding it, needing his lazy touch.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

November 29 2011 The Stars Are Either A Giant Word Hoard of the Universe or Venerable Ancient Monks


Monday, November 28, 2011

November 28 2011 Prayer To A Pomengranate

the pomengranate is my patron saint
the one i bow & pray to every night,
who grants me every blessing,
the one who assuages my every sorrow.
These folded hands, bloody red, are my witness,
marking resurrection of all fruit within.
I twist it across my rough hewn hands
calloused by years of labor over the endless green
of cucumber, tobacco and thick fisted corn.
Her seeds catch crimson in the gaps of my teeth
Pink dreams run down my ruddy cheeks, its stain of grace
rolls off as I savor the purple bitter bite.
Each pit is spit out like a new commandment.

You and I are brothers, so i share my half of the
shrunk gift, vermillion lipped, rubbed bruise raw
across the shredded meat.
This is a communion of a stolen tongue,
& a frantic heartbeat that burns within me.

November 27 2011 :

Sometimes i get tired of the sound of my own voice.
i just know that the end of a year brings more questions than answers.
where does spirit go, uncorked like red wine that spills all over everything?
What now are we to make of the sullen cornfields?
Can anything grow in this waiting season?

Sunday, November 27, 2011

November 26 2011 : Autumnal Poem 2011

Be mine
Brightened light
Drown to yellow autumn
Nothing held back
Swim in the black
Cunty smell of leaves
Below worms toil
Turning soil like
Corkscrews eating
& shitting dirt
What burrows deep
I am a harbor
Nurturing it as my own
Brother sky
Sister earth
Gaze into my face
With forgetful eyes
I alone nurture the lies.

November 25 2011 : Erasure of Cormac McCarthy Introduction to His Novel Suttree

Dusty hours streets go forth
Drunk and homeless, go highshouldered
In grim perimeters, sootblackery
Stones unplumbed, scarabs and rain worn
Dim with years, packed, dirty bones
Under blue lamplight, run on darkness
Into the pinchbeck steel leaks.
Past sandy cinderblock
Sumac and pokeweed withers in clay banks.
Vines coiled in sprout shapes from cinder
In abandonment
Past lamps
Past oblique china
Painted where dirty flowers rent with rum
Cross from hobbled bottles.
Toys of the damned
Where lepers and the improbable
Bass moon clouds run like ink,
Stamped against a rampart
Farther, forsaken
Forgotten miles, earth clings
A mongrel architecture.
Works of Man
Aberrant, disordered & mad.
The sap of a factory wall runs
Tracking weeds of foul blue.
Filaments nameless in the current,
In glass window frames, a
Moonshaped globe provides a constant helix
Of faint burnt fields
Mud deltaed
Its rich alluvial bones of cratewoods
& condoms and fruitrinds washing up.
Old time, near the fecal mire of a trackless dementia
Is shorn, skull colored, bleached
& bloated,
Mooneyed birds, sluggard ooze from
Rain flattened riverloam.
The neap flitch of foundered fires,
The dying incandescent eyes,
The wave of the violent & the insane
Living on drama and parable
Longing in dark’s restitution
All within alien reaches
Interstitial and illshapen, a
Fugitive of order
Quiet like a camp the night before a battle
Breast beaten like a heart
Beset by the sea, gate, walled shut,
All kept by the bloody carder of the world,
These bone horses,
Rain splattered by
Rain you can see falling slant –
The river seems a gift
In gifts from stone to stone
Webbed in duel the
Jointed fool dangles a bone
Pendulum in motley shapes
In tender presentations
And in ruder forms

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

November 24 2011 : We Are Buckshot, Returning To The Barrel Of the Shotgun Which First Scattered Us

[Let’s all migrate & become nomads]
[Let’s pick up our heavy mortgages & those commitments that hamstring us]
[Let’s gather up our belongings]
[those things we will someday sell at a tag sale]
[those things that we will pay someone else to store for us]
[while we work extra jobs to find the money to buy larger houses]
[with more cavernous garages to store all these things]
[Today is an implosion] [a beehive of collapse as we scatter to gather]
[Scoot home little children]
[This season is as slippery as turkey gravy]
[Run home] [collect yourselves from the coasts to the midlands]
[From the deep boasts of the mountains] [to high-pitched briny beaches]
[Try uprootedness] [bake too much] [drink too much]
[watch too much football] [& recall a grievous childhood]
[It’s time to dance the dance of memory]
[We are geese making our way in V-formation]
[Remembering routes home as innately as to our fathers’ graves]
[Collect fallen leaves from denuded trees like spent stars off the ground]
[Paste each leaf back onto bony branches]
[Gather] [Undestroy things][Undarken night][Redawn the morning]
[We magnetic filings have our poles reversed every year at this time]
[Travel by the light of instinct] [use them all]
[the ones we use when we hunt] [or during sex]
[or when we just breathe in the unspeakable parts of a poem]
[Go home]