Granite soul sarcophagus
my heart worries like
a Pekingese butterfly.
Lithe voices glide
like spirits in mist
short words spoken close.
Closed mouths tight lips
give way to sentences, vines
outstretched tendrils grasping
rich air for meaning, moisture.
The ecstasy is the infamy
of blasphemy, to marry flesh
in intimacy, crying out for more
and less and more.
Tell her something perfect
he says to himself, his lips stir — she cuts in
“Everything will be wrong tomorrw.”
“Then anything is right tonight.”
Losing count of drinks, cigarettes
kisses, they blur, until
the edge of the world
is the end of the night.
I wrote this on my typewriter, October 8, 2008.
I’m aware of some of it’s faults, but I welcome further criticism. And I don’t like the title.
On the land I lived
I’d built a bridge
and there returned.
I stood
on planks and logs
of wood, hammered
still with time,
and looked to find
the world less green
than I remembered,
a year ago
since that December.
On the land I lived
I’d built a bridge
and there returned.
what does it taste like
to be part of a machine
does it taste oily
like lubricants
industrial and viscous
or sweet illusion give way give way
to bitter aftertaste metallic
acidic like vomit
bile mixed earth
toxic and preservative.
what does it taste like to be part of a
machine?
In the darkest night of the season
I fell in a hole, booted feet
and stick knees on
soft earth fresh from run off
and I ran off too
down tracks parallel in direction
and through luck and inattention
made it home.
