Thursday, March 31, 2011

And Athens Was Full of So Many Sounds

Heart haloed in its own breath pressed up against the window will
see: Something: Enshrined imaginations, taken form from
wave-water coursing like oceans from caves of mouths open: waters,
not-fresh not-salty waters. The echoes of everything
interfere, producing power or killing each other. I have heard
a great light.

Monday, March 28, 2011

Dialogue: On Meaning

Don’t belabor the. Point. Tip dulled by the heavyhanded sides of your wide file’s edges, the flesh and fingernails of slowcrushing and socalled Thought. I am not. Going to. Gethsemane, or love him with wholehead, for that matter. It doesn’t. The fabric and foundation of a haunted world, the quirks of a quarky conglomeration of nations happily. Wielding their blunt/s/words. Like symbiosis survival sunharvesting and Superman-Overman. Wouldn’t or doesn’t or won’t go. To Gethsemane, or crazy for that matter, though maybe away (not in the way he once went, crying forgiveness and crazed). We’re all coolheads here, so let’s not belabor. The point is we’re all loving the same.

Good God! What have I. Done, I am un. Der your standing, un. Done, with the dark please bright blazingeye shining like firestorm in all my desperate doings and blissblind unloving please don’t open there they’re unready I am for wide-eye unready these twistedup handheavy Thoughts, for You—

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Hebrews 12:18

Because if I do not who will know the inside? out shown outridden. But you are all gold lightening in a warm forest night screeching owls oh. Without whirlpools little pools of light on such cheeks and lucklips who will know moonlight. No one to see it, and eyes like orbs unseen invisible and indivisible. That is why. I wear. Cotton and gold lining, robes of ever aging forever like draping the coolcurtains of your bright eyes, too bright, there is just too much too bright. Have I got you have I allured by word worldly so stunning in awe all the many syllables of heart turned gold. How big is your. Vocabulary? I am so stunning stunned I am so. Soon the child will make his – yes – it is, that his moan cry hungering still running through shapes of the warm forest. Think I am crazy because I. Don’t. Like an onion it has so many vitamins, but don’t kiss me! up and down my neck invisible impalpable I seem alone do I? But underneath my clothes (let me tell you a secret) I am not wearing. Surprise? In the warm forest bodies are everywhere, many of them cooling, been gotten, been had, been laid out. To dry. Tree limbs so warm in the night how? They are all reaching for. The poor child’s wet eyes so wideopen so willing full of laughcryhot open wanting. So un ash-amed. Not many upgrowns the big trees will say yes when you ask when and when and. When you ask why there are still so few who will say anything, I know I am one of them. Quailmeat in my hands, on the fire, fire coming tomorrow lighting the endless deserted matchhead of this pinprick earth. Stubborn I have seen the light. Who are you now have you changed can I address you at the foot of the sooty mountain, face covered in black ash I can taste it and the fourleggeds stubborn near me and covered in ash unmoving except for the spitting wind from the mountaintop and Abraham silent in the hot cloud. Aaron impatient, stubborn. Moses coming glowing impatient, stubborn. No one got where they were going except a couple boys, too young to be stubbled still but so strong in their eyes and their mouths set firm, mouths that tasted the green things of that place no one else saw. Miriam’s song I almost remember it it is shining so clearly, forever. What if I have no. Or get red in the. Face me, or can you would it kill me. What it musthave, for you hearing the song you saw ends of, saw stubborn wills set counter before wills were. Your cloud cool for hot heads and fire warm for coldsouls, evermelter. Nothing more wanted than burning here, ashcovered, what it must be like to see me clinging the cliffskirt, full in that instant with all desire but sosoon (you see and onlyyousee) eyes off, running away. Simon said. I will. You said. Will you. You know that I. It breaks my quailmeat hot heart and the crusty coolhead to hear the sweetsongmany of moments’ praise, raised up to you who know their end, who see the ashes of tongue and teeth that them sing, singing over and over again but never. Enough. For? Ashchildren kneeling on rockknees at mountainfeet. I see storms all over your face? set toward. And turned and said. These things. Happening to? Whom your stubborn mouthfull friends. I understand you when I see storms in your eyes but who are you in the clear skies? ask the splintering rock Do you Fish in your hand but my stomach growling howling is crushed by the stones of notknowing your kind eyes I want to find a mountain to kneel at I need a black mountain I know the ashes I know them not this man on the beach haunting me with an innocent question and kind eyes.


Fluent in so many tongues. When the rise of oceans like syllables comes there is rip tide in it in deathly fear. That moment of knowing yourself pulled. Be careful and I remember him holding out the yellow wings be a good little something a bird. But I am old! Old man five years young.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011


The spade, and the dark dirt, and coils of graverope.
Where every move made, fist flung, even help held
out is wrong, wrong, wrong. There is always a better way, always
some one thing that proves (truth is one like our God) that the one
I am is: Not. If you were
not the God that calls things that are
not as though they are and thereby makes
things be, I would be

Backlooking so many

Backlooking so many roselikes. Nearopen lily-hands slowly, slowly, a season for every thing. Then more like flytrap manythorned head like horn ramming ramming out my bellytop. Grandmother said swallow black (white all right) seed and get! ready! thick green skin blowing like basketball ball out supplesoft goosedowny belly, leaves in lungs, spreading inescapable drowning in dry vines: just. Like. That. (Snap!) Backlooking so many roselikes, littlethorned, bristlebrush calligraphic tips making their loopy beautymarks all throughout inside me. Pupils still learning the outside, can’t know what form whose face these flowers drew. Tall Gardener standing bleeding too in pruning shear position, so certain, so. Tall. Little me running round unready asking asking tugging and hiding at once everything in little squeaks asking what to do meaning Can I? What I want. Exactly. Tall Gardener eying so curiously me he had been, still is, turned toward me turned toward lines and lines of garbled. All hungryrush handthoughts grabbing turn peace in the presence of Him, pruningshears handheld and holy.


Join me in welcoming Jabberwock. In roaring he takes the stage, bated unsated breath, slick cool scales shimmering greenish in spotlight unflickering, unmanned. My frumious fans I am frabjous this day, brillig and beamish. (What a card.) Alice with upfluttering palms to protect from flying red- and black-whites somewhere nextdoor in time’s manyroom.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

It Is Perfectly Quiet That Is the Problem

I need someone to hold
my hair back in this sickswirling
time after time while the floods roll
logs and timber into walls of unstoppable
splintering madness because right now
at the pit of me there seems to be nothing
but this deadening worm
of sorrow that eats
and eats.


Hillside stark
green as lightning
is white, with hands
like trees cracking
and bending over
the swollen earth.


He is all ears to my hollows,
patience like the ocean floor
which lets how many mileshigh
waters wave and roll
thumping each other and the broken
shore too, over and over again.
with every dive but salt’s lining
my wounded hollows
open to crying gulls and the false
feeling of kicking alone.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Song of Solomon, Again, Again

If Beloved had a solo
it would sound like the voice in my chest
I think, because
that one bleats
like the goats of Gilead too
and it mourns false
lovers at its door

But I have it all wrong.
The Lover is running
across the hills.
Or does her mind
play light against shadow there,
chasing myrrh?
Her head is a pink umbrella
over the curve of dry earth.

Yes, and it’s raining.
The moon looks romantic,
pulling or so they say
the tide,
blushing, but it’s only light
pollution and smog
they say.
The Beloved believes it is pretty.
The Beloved holds on.

But how? The only faith!
we have is in questions
or exclamations today.
What about her.
She stays low.
She waits.

I can’t tell you how
uncomfortable this is.
You think these lines
make masks
or a cage like ribs, but they
pierce me.
I know neither
whether I please you or the Father
of us but I know I don’t please
myself: This the best comfort
Beloved can offer

Saturday, March 5, 2011


I have scrubbed the dead words off my face. They are in my hand:
I have not much to offer you but dirt and these dry flakes.
Language like mine is the uppermost layer of skin,
the earth’s epithelium—see what I mean? The appearance of things, beauty
of rhythm, in sound and in tones
smooth, the articulation of perfect faces. That is why young fresh forms
attract. But I know a man whose face
was looked over, when the overlookers lacked ears
or ear canals, temporal lobes, or open souls.
He sears flesh with his tongue without leaving a mark on the surface of things
and then goes
to roll gently back the dead surface of things.

Galatians 3

We clothe ourselves
willingly in one another. Here is glory’s
mystery: the purple and withered

flesh becomes spring, all things beginning
new. Mortality is a mask
time unrepentant pastes to our faces, not a necessary
state of mind behind surfaces of mockery

and of fear frozen
in splintering wood. I am

near now. When I hear the basin
full of water in the dark and the hands
of God reaching for my feet on his knees
I am near.

respond to me respond to me respond

The whole earth resounds with your love. Make me

the perfect flesh-echo of you
pronouncing me: my name
yours, first and forever, safe and home
only in your mouth. Kissing is eating
each other and sex is wanting

to be consumed. I have so many
theories like thistleweeds wrapped around
dry skin, but let me in, the core of me
and you simultaneous knocking
on doors, down walls, let me in.

respond to me respond to me respond

The whole earth resounds with your love. Make me

the perfect flesh-echo of you
pronouncing me: my name
yours, first and forever, safe and home
only in your mouth. Kissing is eating
each other and sex is wanting

to be consumed. I have so many
theories like thistleweeds wrapped around
dry skin, but let me in, the core of me
and you simultaneous knocking
on doors, down walls, let me in.


To love and lose; to love and
get rid of. But the dove could find
nowhere to perch because there was water
over all the surfaces of earth; it returned
to Noah. Heartshine melts into moonlight
weak, too weak, too pale to sustain
anything but the rising and falling tides. Listen!
I slept but my heart was awake. The water
creeps over the shore, past the pleasant lines
drawn by wisdom’s happy mind. My beloved knocks:
Open to me, my sister, my darling
dove, flawless one. My head is drenched with dew,
my hair with the dampness of night.

Bloodrivers twine through our bodies and around
our bones. As Jesus was coming
up out of the water, he saw heaven
being torn open and the Spirit descending
on him like a dove. But Abram said, Sovereign
Lord, how can I know?
Because our bodies are full
of blood and of quiet things
that whisper in hisses. So the Sovereign
Lord said to him, Bring me a three-year-old heifer,
a goat, ram, dove, and young pigeon.

Abram brought all these to him, cut them in two, arranging
the halves opposite each another; the birds, however,
he did not cut in half. The bride readies herself,
pinning the coils of her hair.
Then birds of prey came down on the carcasses,
but Abram drove them away.