Poetry

An effect of dire inconsistency but constant

a wager of lips

elicits a cacophony of sliding skin

measuring pour by pour

the magical perseverance of faith.

listen. do not grope your red

ambition or fade into the morning ritual

of tainted thought, reasonable streams

of water and life, mother and child,

the dogmatic itch of sarcasm pervading

the glaze on your moonshine eyes.

If I could replicate the intangible

I could tell you of the dog that laughs

the lambs that shy away

the hornets which stare at the blinding sun

anthropomorphic fallacies

sharpened as blades of light

and caught in the pupil burn radiation,

or just the love with a beastly ache,

the human taking on the animal

The Clouds are Swollen Lights

the field is empty,

visceral vanity leaks from a lightning bolt

and i see myself in its relative structure,

almost as an elongated country in the sky

kvelling with the people of the night-

whether existent or peripheral,

the sun shakes its flowing body

wind and day are two melting faces

dripping from the wooden mold

caught in the hair of a seething waterway

branches pry my eyelids open with rough antique words

listening to their infused growth reveals me

I kneel through the detonated sound

in a cardboard illusory room

repeating my name, chased by a repressed burning gondola

up the mountain

through the shadow-forest-stage

open to the final breath

scattered in a territorial crust of my existence

torn between the earth and sky

a corporeal scream releases my body

and I shudder making love to the origin of a dream

Kept to a taste of unimaginable sea

waking up. the creamy image smeared

on your eyes, faintly the people, familiarity with self,

a gray moment of decision: the point between

your active skin and the revolving light

between your foreign slipping weight

and the limp night with its dragging feet through my mind.

leaning over the shadows

you seem to crave these wounded places,

as if, before you were born,

before the ingrained teeth of a personal world

and the natural staples of snow and solitary winter,

you thought through the capacity of shivers,

thought to an oblivion of our breathing held in two

I know the relentless red soil opens and closes,

fails and succeeds, as a pulsing nostalgia

or a recurring dream, I know it wrapped and folded

into the sentimental cracks in my jaw

from the kisses of your eye-filled morning,

your morning of two seasons swept like a silent clean room

in the dead running of love-struck piano keys

joined to matters of time and place, a meld

of melodic hazel coal usurping

our violent blue flesh in the peak of our un-calculated snow.