Tuesday, March 16, 2010


Brother, there is a place some say we cannot go.
Some say (and many pen)
that Truth’s a vulture, coiling round
some poor dissected horse-corpse, open, rotting.
Too old for being ridden, and too wild,
they led her by the neck and
shot between the eyes.

On this I sit and choke,
I choke and sit the day.

There is a place above, below,
and running through such words too bright and real
for chalk and sand imaginings of men.
How to speak of that, that all sound sweeps
like dust away beneath its brassy door?
Study me
and if my palms are lying,
hushing whispers or a preposition
in clenches curled in pockets,
tell me plain. There is nothing
I want but to take you
out of this anxious and stop-dammed womb
to a city we have no eyes to fathom—

we, pleasure-hunting, treasure-seeking
fanged big game and daggers made of gold.

On this I sit and choke,
I choke and sit the day

long. But I know you
do grope too, in a cold place, maybe
with fear-sealed eyes, and maybe
desperate madness, fierce and pure.