Physical interaction in retrospect is the best form of literature, I say.
Literature walks and gives me headaches. It leaves me scars.
It puts a smile on my face and wears it off over time.
It strips me of my clothes and makes me shake.
Literature is comprised of bare appearances and hard lighting.
The folds of skin and the creases under lids,
under the curves of nostrils,
under lips, under chins, Subjectivity and taste
under bosoms, are interchangeable.
And they under you.
are beautiful, I can b
the words I read in your eyes. e
And I’ll have you know I’ve learned n
how the wisps of your hair wrap around d the paths of the so-called tunnel
your neck like vines and how they stick like of your vision like
seaweed to ripe skin. I know how the cold night you can
casts its glow on that perfect widow’s peak b
on your head and why you flash your e
chipped teeth with pride. I do. n
I delight in your disorder. d
my dirty knees to the ground.
March 2012
6 posts
the american dream is dead
like flowers in snow
or so says suze orman
but contrary to popular belief
it is still possible to board a train
and choo-choo to a new disguise
under the cover of ”art”
or “rebellion”
or “sentimentality”
the steam also rises in the east young man
still it is so simple
to fade away into a wandering life
littered with scars and probable cause
lacking the need for a warrant
or a mattress
or censorship
the rails are still parallel and go west
every time you see a broken stoplight
or a dead garden
or socks with holes in the toes
(those reminders of a time
when two dollars meant
the world was attainable
and practical
and green)
do you think of parallel lines
piles of clothes complacency matted hair
tussled and cross i think i finally lost
you no maybe from a nest coughed reds
and tossed you into sunned lawns prism
pinned sprinkler mists a spinning grinning
crown gilded and wrapped in pockets of
peaches your peach sleeping gown that once
made sneezes the season the transparency in
daylight and erasures in ice machines
licking and laughing sliding the rocket
red white and blue and frozen clinging
to its popsicle stick the flavors like
fireworks on the fourth grinning spinning
in crowds and trucks that sing songs
to bait the children as i watch with
stained lips a pantheon of moonlight
girls twice removed from pains you once
proved unforgettable now distant grumbling
greens at sea and we blast on drifts
through rainbow mists.
with narrow palms and human break of wind
behind dirty windshields and foggy headlights
through sleight of hand and heavy breathing
and B. Warren’s audio technica dit-dit-dit-ditting
with oversized men’s shoes and an off-centered belly button
beyond garbled Latin hearsay and butchered commands
through greens that dilate and yellows that contract
and here, for good measure, by this voucher demanding my stay
I am filled
by the mercy of confectioner’s sugar and by corn juice’s might
blessed be the paste that holds you and I together
I,
finally,
forgot
the ache of your frame
the lilting refrain
the soft of your name
the sound of your voice
from my head
and I felt it brave.
But,
push
press
your ear to my chest
and
hear the dull hum of its grave.
