Tagged: the Self
Grass
the moment wretching
becomes embarassment, or
forgetfulness begetting
regret
I must purge before I’m full
like eating grass
use it down to its wick
and need more
get more. expend more
smoke it. they call to me
they are soul choice
says the non-soul
so avoidable
so unnoticed, so
they don’t break the skin
as to them
every pour
is a great cathedral door
my eyes like stained glass
manipulating the light into
church light
dried blood and piss, the
yellow-green of flowers
shoved into books
everything is a mistake
your bouquet should have been
grass, the animals
should have been quiet
The Most Humane Way Possible
I can see faces
in the trees again
their beards covering
their mouths their eyes
the spaces of absence
where the grapevine
hasn’t quite
blanked me out of view
we’ve been through so much
they’re expecting a list
but I couldn’t I can’t
I’m wondering about the farm
you adopted two hens
but must cull
five to six muscovies
the most humane way
is not the easiest
almost never
I wonder if
it’s a huge mistake
then remind myself
that we slept well together at
my parents’
we bought a car
we survived an abortion, an
assault, a freeze, a virus
all of which during
we wanted to pull so tight
like netting and a cone
and pass through our
rib cages trying but failing
to catch us, breaking
the skin like pin feathers
I must provide life
that is what goes on the table
you must provide love
but I think mine goes first
I must work on balance
I picture cairns, but
not that something
way more considerate
– mindful of
underwater bugs
maybe she’s here
and that’s why you can’t sleep
I would have loved
to have seen you pregnant
maybe it’s the house
it’s probably me
what’s the most humane
way possible
upside down into a bucket
but we slept so well at
my parents’ loved
so well in the trailer
had options
overcame those options
like mountain climbers
but on soft, little heads
we must attract
the type of good
you can’t feel good about
but it’s what we’d want
if we had the other
AB –
the truth is
I don’t want to talk
to anybody
the end suits me
when she called
I lied and leveraged
something very real
when you’re around
I don’t know to feel
because I feel great
when you’re gone
it’s like
I have so much
catching up
to do
Nietzsche’s Sister’s Cat
I wonder if the dog, while
holding its mouth open for the cat
ever has thoughts of crushing it
flash images
like a photo continues
outside its frame, does the dog
see itself continue?
does the cat suspect?
suspect is a strong word
surely the dog is not to blame for
seeing. is seeing thinking?
neither one is doing
until it is done. so the cat is cautious
the dog inviting – its neck
thicker than its head
the skull in plates
built for this relief
sure, the cat will trust
the dog one day, but only after
it has never happened
A Love Letter
it feels like a good time…
candles already lit, so
no presumptuous
candle lighting
some of the hourglass
sand is stuck. I wonder if
this is like time, then
throw up in my mouth a little
but what place other than
a letter to talk about time?
or sand? or being stuck? plus
I am concerned about my hourglass
it’s meant to be 30 minutes
but with sand stuck to the glass
is it quite? how much
time am I getting?
is it the same sand each time?
or does new time replace it?
it’s hard to tell – I flip it
just to see you buried
the Angel of Forgetfulness
blesses me. The Angel of White
Dimples
rebuilds herself
whole temples in her honor
could this be the time
when all of the sand
falls through? and
Forgetfulness retrieves
her blanket?
will I remember having
said yes to this, this life
and potentially others?
what did I see up there
that meant
enduring a human body
was it your body? It could
have been your body
was it something that needed
to be done?
have I done it?
can I keep doing it? is there any
question but the one I have already
answered yes to…
…is this a good time?
Activity
I am writing again, which
feels like the wrong thing
behind me
there are thousands of figures
symbols for lost time
like a chair is not its word
“chair” a person
is not his name
nor is he what he leaves
behind
he is not named
“gunk in corners”
though he resides there
with no need for sitting, writing
now he sinks
where chairs were
leaving behind residue
like ink
on the paper
at night
Numbers in a Bag of Cherries
I have two cherries.
Yes. What happens if you eat one?
I have one left.
Yes! Two minus one equals one. What happens if you eat one more?
I have a bag.
How Our Strengths are Reflected
always myself, as such
i am not
what i make
of you
bad at protecting
interests
delicate in lies
and pursuit
of poor health
those interests
aware
that the better
parts of me
are ones
i have been asked
by others
to hold
The Point I’m Trying to Make Is
it starts out as a thought
which is to say
the only thing
between nothing and thought
is me
what am i mostly?
tonight i caught a knife
after i dropped it
at first i felt impressed
that is not unlike
an immediate thought
a knife
falling through the mind
i’d rather have a spoon
an egg
the things i feel second
thirdly about
to balance my egg
down this botched,
carnivalian raceway
keeping the spoon straight
with my mind
i’d avoid the knife-jugglers
who are looking
directly at me
their points connected
umbilically
to my sternum
it’s like my body knows
it will die that way
in some freak accident
there is one long
accordion squeeze
of life
you leave your egg
in a basket
at the end
a Curse
there’s water to drink from
above the carcass
and seasons bringing courage
under spell of delusion
is it winter? there are still
mosquitoes. their larvae twitch
from room to room
and tadpoles remain tadpoles
in their comfortably
sized ponds
having no reason to change
they do not
as I have not
until I see long legs
step out, away
the whole thing moves
the known world
seems
noticeably smaller
and there isn’t enough room
for what I feel like
in an otherwise
happy life