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

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 like time, then
throw up 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

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