I am illegitimate in my engagement. I am faithful in demise. I am savage among the imbued. I am the undertow of doubt, facing off against the self for a last breath. One more cry unsatisfied, left peaceful and a child in the night under the messenger moon, a fire sweet in its want of air, enraptured with destiny…encased in the future ash. I am a ( Read more... )

I

Waters edge, 1924. He emasculated the steam, cursed it as it curled up from the buildings. Just as a stranger has no place, the city has no home. It is the paradise of vagrancy.

He mattered less then, than at any previous moment - imagined or real. He could always stay in the mist of a field, certain of his dreams. Certain of his ( Read more... )

 
we cannot see disease…unplanned, indescribable, like drowning, but acquired…always acquired invisibly…unnoticed…unkempt and impossible to destroy completely. Across the country there are millions signing deeds, supplanting something for someone, a kiss to a stranger or a clasped hand stretched and draped along a back…so many ways. too many.

he ( Read more... )

“far beyond that” I said, "you should realize this, if nothing else…I have no poetry left, I have no need for it. I've burned all the books and warmed my hands by the flame. It was more, then, than it had ever been before. Offerings to the flesh. I have no used for words that touch up, that dress, that tidy, that are channels of avoidance.  All ( Read more... )

And what am I to you, a storm in the night. A face unlifted from tired pillows, cleansing the air unfurled, unknown…or perhaps a bother. It’s only me at your door. A white noise that falls on curtains, a thin razor air. A music, it might be mine, but I grew it in poison and shine and sometimes the flies gather for the blind. What a bother. What, me ( Read more... )

in the middle of the street there are no names...no shovels for gold or prayers for knees to beg. darlings left their posts. on the eves the halos dangle, for the saints and angels have found god. and the time’s taken place. along a long road.

you wilderness self, you lost collections of stars!

 I consider it such a flaw, this push and pull…the question of being and purpose. I'm reminded of your home from time to time when I see the poster for A Tree Grows in Brooklyn…how the bridge aches for attention in the background…how it reminds me of myself…my home and the barricades. Steel and stone and compulsive wires - transmogrification - ( Read more... )

She told me how to walk. “This is how you walk.” Flashed arms and faster paced. She didn’t distinguish between facts and sidewalk cracks. She thought Beethoven was overdrawn and Bach over blown. Fantastic and proud, her glasses hid the rings beneath her eyes. There was a safety in her pleasure. “You don’t smile enough. And you take your time. your ( Read more... )

******,

I think it’s often said best by those who don’t even try…those unconscious breathers, the imperial thoughtless geniuses. I heard something this morning that struck me so…”to her death is quite romantic she wears an Iron vest, her professions her religion her sin is lifelessness.” I am marred…I am troubled. I see my romance…I ( Read more... )