Re-cementing

Some days it is easy
to find you. I'm reading about that
now. About how there can be an opposite
of that as well, which is today, which is why I look.

Yes, yes, I admit it, I was
hungry. And the soil was eroded.
How did it end? With the re-cementing
of the mathematical onslaught of words,
calculated to come through coldly.

I should have known, though I did
not, the sun was refracting our words.
Silence is complex, we both know.
A door in the earth slams shut, my mouth full of mud.

12.24.2005-1.6.2006

 

 

Doesn't Change a Thing

As for the moon, twice she woke
me up at midnight to lecture
about the stem-art of the afterlife,
the decrepitude of poetry-doesn't change
a thing, she said. Looms death-purple partial
to the ways of history's whorish repetitions
to time's limits. Of all prison's, I find mine
here; you cite oxygen, you curse circles, but give
no reason for their omnipresence. Hardly
conscious, a curses' permanence is the needle
that sticks into the concrete vein of the cirrocumulous
blood. And doesn't change a thing. Glass quavers,
two-dimensions of a throat and a blade
weave a sulfuric pattern across my fingers.

One of us moans, one of us
spills. He gazes into the dark and then he says
I am correct. We've had too many conversations to do
either of us good. A failing sun, or worse, forests burning, a poem,
ripped from its owner as cloudbombs drop
onto unseen corpses, drowning in puddles in
the yard. A spiders skein weaves through
a rock; the notes swell in folds; concentric heads
collect and hurt when melted. Rainbowlike, the bright
doodles she sketches across her face with the horizon
extending across her arms. The cold sprawls over a
map and freezes the mannequin, draped with fabric. Doesn't change
the weather, doesn't change a thing. Let's go, you
mutter, turned hotwhite by noon. We

meet in latitudes that are foreign. We dig
our feet into the loam, where they fashion
faces out of wax. So long had life been together
with death (fucking) that the days fell and were rent
by the third day of the year. So alien has beauty
become that I can't sleep except in the entanglement
of weeds. The plumbing overflows, raw sewage spills
into my mouth. I cough, spit. I blow out the flame in my
eyes, bend to pray, my body tonguelike. The dead infant
inside me slumbers. Doesn't change a thing.

1.3.2006

 

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