I’ve always been lucky,
given certain situations.
Luck can follow you all over the world like that.
Like a number,
that only you look for.
Like that blues song
when you realise
you’re also the seventh son.
So many crossroads
and still no one’s taken my soul yet.
There are so many thing I want to do
to everything that will one day be behind me.
It’s all there,
in a harvest of tomorrow,
but it means I must keep love
like burning lungs
that still breathe.
It’s easier to do
with each step.
Which is to say,
it’s not easy,
but I keep going.
Just take this crowbar to my mind and
pry out whatever you want, will you?
I don’t know what the hell’s in there anymore,
it’s full of all sorts of shit.
Whatever you want
it’s there, somewhere,
but I don’t know how to find it,
it all seems so useful to me
Before she stitched together her brassiere, and before she pulled on everything that counted, back when she stood under the broken clocktower we played forgettable songs and held in the darkness. Before she lay on to her front, and before she held on to everything she wanted, back when she ran around with every shadow covering her ass. Back then, we used to rent our lives like campsites. But when she’d had enough and lay on the parquet floor with the soles of her feet blushed red with cold, everyone else seemed to have been standing for too long. And she moved her head back to see me behind her crosslegged on a stool that couldn’t take my weight. (Later they told us it was our eyes that did it.
That stopped everyone standing.) I was with her as if it were just us. As if everything else was lost, and our only safety was each other’s bodies. Then she was smiling. Not smiling but laughing. No sound but you could see it in her eyes and the tilt of her chin. She looked at me and said, “More.” And can’t I deny, I looked at them and they all looked as if they meant to love her. And a girl said, “Let’s give her heaven!” And though she denied none of us She remembered to show her little boredoms when she had them and she looked at me, the way she did when she wanted me to listen, and all the breaths sounded like a sea We hadn’t seen in years and she took me, and quickened me to a sprint with the first sigh and mercilessly limpened me with her second. Then she stood, and she felt like she did when she was young. Like the only thing love gave her was freedom.
I’ve been writing job applications all day and my brain is dull,
I cannot tell them that I communicate in the language of drums.
I am good, I write.
You want me?
I am good.
I may have written other things
but this is all I said.
Today is the first. Spring comes in the breath of waking. We know time is only useful stationary. Lose thirty years in someone’s eyes. Find purgatory in company we cannot love. Experience memories like stepping on glass. There are no yesterdays in a loving touch. Some mornings we wake like we've just been born. Today there is nothing behind you.
Your head is beside mine in the avalanche
and i have no way of turning our limbs
unless we embrace
and engulf the room
As our days have become combatant and
our dives down together free
our bones in the myriad lakes
and random sighs
Where the rocks of no more
or the scented showers of your back
when it’s a bad day
Our limbs reach out and ricochet
reach out and dive throughout all seasons and
know that the weather was afraid
Since even the dogs now laugh in circular barks
these raw drinks of rough sewage upon throats
that bring the stars into question, and dance
with each one beyond a new city made of flux
under the chatter of the mardi gras march,
Then beyond the piers where rants become suns
the heavens of bone become the grace we forget
whether we drank too much, worked too much, or
just forget that all animals are hybrid in the march;
unless a mating call shatters the grey.