when I say virtue, I’ve fallen from my
chair
At the end of
the table is an ocean to cross
and an ocean is
never in shambles
like a book with
thirty-four decks burns
St. Elmo’s fire
against the white leaf
a door you stand
to apprehend
Close your dream
and push it away
a sterile
miracle of your inner fine ghost
is a morgue with
an imprint of sea and continents
a mighty history
patching up its root system
to emerge in the
pause of identification as work
Visit the
planets, take your mind off your eyes
you see
assembled around you
what you know.
What more do you want
to push through
this damaged surface
bric-a-brac
hanging from every word
where the red
tape should be
|
plausible blunders had unmanned me
Plausible
blunders had unmanned me
but now I speak
perfectly manned, an almanac
stone for a
head, trapped thing sunning itself
does it all end
for you when the Puritans arrive
the word
ingested light
in
small inscriptions let from lips
no wonder the
countries in our mouths should catch…
Can we not see
the discrete box of light in the mere blunderer
over the white
matter of the sky
arrive and the
land educates you
move around and
stables of meaning travel in place
boatless rudders
of language,
plucked
hieroglyphs from matter’s cold cellar.
Close to the
glacier use the word “carefully”
when everything
appears at once—a white fright—opaque
last
call:
revolutionize
the plenum, the avalanche of plenum
where a
container of morning covers its mouth…
Fa Love Pa
even when it
speaks like a muscle
loving underwater
it only breathes in air
with honking
nouns and real-time leaps.
The heart is not
a macguffin
but our
macguffin has a heart
connections
corrupt but sound still travels
that speaks
through the mattress of sea
Through the
welter of greedy foliage, wet next to the ear
fire we know,
and human combinations
we would shake
it from the tree
to see beyond
the place our eyes cross
Our own
bludgeoned burgeoning out of sleep’s asymmetry
defines the law
of naming
if I cannot
yearn for sea creatures
along the narrow
of simultaneous living
I’m betrayed by
the nothing inside of the form
with its lottery
wardens of the flesh.
Revelation is at
heart a linguistic event
and all
creatures with lungs can speak
there came upon me
There came upon
me a swag behind me
touched me on
the shoulder and I said Prophet
turning to face
the mirror image of a broken thing
is still to face
what you’ve called a broken thing
next to another.
Ten years of reflection is not sufficient
to scale the
space between us with small birds;
wild pets we
next to never know, these years,
very sudden and
heavy freshets close behind us.
When leaving the
body, tangled harmonies
crash overhead,
and drowning in a box
marked sleep,
two of my biscuits completely got wet.
I mean that
which I held, paralyzed
in the
undergrowth. In the undergrowth
of my economy a
separation opens its light
touches me on
the shoulder as I move into dark,
the hen of a
journeyer, fenced in the yard.
residue of a
journeyer, sore with filaments.
