Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
first quench the eye’s lust for color
this is a fast of sorts
the earth must be buried
under any snow available
the glass of the glass
must be clear and clean
the milk whole and stolen
from long-suffering cows
lower don’t raise the filled glass
turn your back to the window
offer milk to each corner
of your grungy kitchen
watch your shadow lift
a shadow to its lips
it’s time to lay out cutlery
a dish of rock salt
a bowl of sleep
at each place setting for those
who are no longer with us
but on their phones
break bread with silence
the nothing you feel is
the nothing you deserve
a zest of lemon on
a faceless slab of cod
will never be the opiate of the masses
put away the candles
borrow light from a streetlamp
or a jar of moonshine
straighten your spine
it’s time to begin dreaming
your next life
let the water’s currency
pass from palm to palm
scooped up or cupped
from an open tap
its anonymity going public
as a cloak of foam
hands twist and shimmy
dancing fast and close
till they’re indistinguishable
and all hands are right
the skin sheds its oils its soil
its toil-colored self
once again to whisper away
the kiss of living
risky as it is
with unseen tasks
***
Thanks to the anonymous graffiti artist whose rendering of the word TASKS in giant letters on a passing train gave me the closing word.
you rise and then what
whose hand will throw your stone
there’s a shape in the sand
that’s got your name on it
a cartoon heart perhaps
or half a castle
let’s snort the headlines
and see who sneezes first
play a game of hashtag
among lifeless bodies of evidence
and collect our empties
for deposit only
five cents for a jack boot
ten cents for a child’s shoe
twisting our tongues as she sells
spent shells by the seashore
i’m not waving but droning
unmanned and wired
to go off
this fragile midnight
its rich veins of blood
let a tooth take root
in a soft skull
at the end of the earth
this very crescent
a high C
guttering in a puddle
or lodged like an eyelash
under your island
at another end of the earth
a drone army
firing tree seeds
into clearcut mountains
if you have a price
you’re not a prophet
go self-censor
for the bathroom mirror
between sleeps
knowing they no longer knock
uncanny heat
for the tenth of February
but the creek’s trickle still hits
the right notes after dark
the evening jets rumble
somewhere out of mind
i disturb a sparrow
in the juniper tree
that holds my house close
to its accretionary trunk
and the fluttering of wings
where a heart would beat
tells me to go bury my head
under the blankets
to bed down with the radio
dead air hissing in my ear
and dream a killing floor
of windblown sand
where pump jacks raise
and lower their horse heads
and flare stacks
burn eternally
for unknown soldiers
it’s essential to keep
the necromance young
the lovely refrigerator
humming in my kitchen
depends on it
and the space heater
and the halloween ladybugs
awakening in the walls
too early
with a burning thirst
nine knuckles are gathering
in a room appointed for sleep
theirs are the only shadows
not checked at the door
nine claws are judging
the entrails of a suit
flies have been eliminated
but still there’s a hum
nine knives are carving
a number into a bare back
even under the eyelids
it’s white as a cloud
the end is far
fetched and fletched
with the iridescent darkness
of starling feathers
an aftermath of statistics
warring stories and desecrated graves
this year in Gaza
or next year in Jerusalem
the end is far
from everything we think
when we wish
upon a starvation
drop two bunker-buster
bombs before bed
side-effects may include
nausea guilt mass carnage
the end is foreign
to the 24-hour news cycle
spinning new gossamer clothes
from faith alone