Having made the identification (after being mugged)

I'll put your face on his
to sleep at night
-- the scar on your nose
becomes him too I'll
see it everywhere now in
noodles, coffee, my
own hand--
I can't imagine your
life even draw well-lit
pictures in the etching turf or
sandy floor where I picked
myself up--it's your voice I'll cling to
I thought I'd recognize your
hands--or your most undramatic
shadows some et cetera-- where
will you sleep tonight? I'll
fold up my instrument parts tucked
away in shapes of "mystery"
and "soul", thimble wise
crawling saws--while you
remember my face, your
thirsty fingers

You are always alone said
the philosopher stretching his toes
by the fire
and slowly curled back
in his behemoth chair bedazzled
under the taciturn weight of
italicized words untouchable to watch while
amusement played his very lips
in the form of inhalation and breathing
and ignoble fingers
Marry you have smitten fair religia and you
wiped my tears away in the dark
that was Germania, narrow,
-- now I see what lies beneath it all that
you cannot even be calculated wrath, but calm, in this
room or windy streets in weathered midday dust
old men in libarary basements
afraid of speed of turns/
or asleep in a park with the open sun
Have yourself unripened foreshorn
your secrets of authenticity rape and echoing corridors
shown me the spinning of my brittle
limbs while I closed my eyes and set
me heart shored these weaknesses and promises and
held my own hand and after the chaos and
leverage of constancy in this stacked deck of
who could wipe my tears away and who could
redeem the good in the morning
while the shadows synthetic reflections of situations and
adjust their billboard lives
in a heaving that taken one breath a smile
and populate the streets in merciless
normalcy and halls and stocking rooms
chores and revelry now listen,
there are some that even look like me, and
fester their unsang brilliance always right behind me
or one day ahead of me
while I sleep or hide unrousingly
conscious in the sprint of three thousand years
or on Nevsky where I am only a
prick of nightmarish episodes and thick
unfolding storied, faith
-- their loose tails and ripening mouths
-- faith in the past and cohesion
have whirled fantasy in sensation around me
in tricks of words and gesture
As I lie awake after I
shrug the toy of weighty prayer and mirthless
purpose / stack in step
into my life and
Even there 'back on the street' parrying enchantment
and lapping up the push of movement (this dust
in my hair) the bright-eyed shadows know me
changing my past to fit my little fingers and
little passions deliberating
my / options erasing my steps with
one in front one behind the vantage
is a corner with the
precision of pen on dry paper
and I could go on and on Philosophy
draw charts and rhyme in fumbling
rhyme, or kill you with love
and never live
but I'll leave that to you

you talk to me

half the night with

beautiful eyes those whites gone red,

those shaved eyeball organs

in pinkish soft light, off

plush blanket, you did insist

- language steps into the

kitchens and bathrooms

broken-down on a different

channel in different states

I’ll repeat them till

you fall asleep



and carry the weight of

the mark it makes

A man dashed

tan necks and easy backs

conversation seems easy:

the chairs pull away:

I’ll expand, too

to the eyes with drunken depth followed by

skin that sweat in

follicle longing the images

panned thick in this normal world

where one finds one

the words of sticky tissue honey

wrapped in poetry and

one pillowed night



We told stories as such: I

listened

Old Grey Rock Stone

Old Grey Rock Stone
Set - against crescent - highs
Long had - the path - worn up and on -
For - us to find you - here!

The face the face - a familiar one
Expecting - this - laureled - gaze
Drawing - tight - breath to consider speech -
For we were on - this side!

Heart - beats bloods - bleed
Building - to trace Stone's time -
The object - blood built is then revealed -
And I was on - that side!

Tremors of - up - Lips of Joy - stomach of Fire -
Shroud in this - different - gaze!
Blood runs twice - with toes of purple -
As old gray Rock - justifies!

With "further to go" now - and "this is the I"
Lifting the - hands so light!
Long had the path worn on and up
I strike again - create -

Old Grey Rock Stone -
Chooses - his words - again
After a - silence - he gathers my nerves
And smiles - with heart - unmoved!

Not the words - I was to wear -
Expectation's - boyish - drowns
Brain limps - to strike - now hurts - the brain -
- Cooling - Blood - under press - of doubt

See through me then old grey Stone!
Indifference - screwing out - hollows
The blood - that was - mine the blood - to make -
Against - me - now plays - in time!

Angels strong
like cotton gins
in the freezer lights
catch arabesque turns
in their pocket candy
hands
strung gently so as
not to fall
they prick each other’
s lips with
longing knife-touches
below, in the spray
of sheer blood run
cool maidens, unaware of
whites: moon dances in the
glenny forest sacking locks
of curled hair while
above, the rain is gentle
hail crafting contemplated waters
the brows left unfurrowed
in the spinning chosen touch

After the dreaming you’d
look back slung back
from the pits of his
nails, forgeign legs
release fists to your own
stomach as the flushings
drained against
hard ribs -
So this is morning? The clothing
relied on no such static to
find its precise perch
heavily on the carpet
The story could be
both old and new
You’ll read on, perhaps twice, not whispering
the winter will keep us cold, the
cotton crumpled snow piled white

The moon was not/ forever tragedy

In flowers she would have been three (he slept
one as the sunflower you’ll find her
nestled in the creaking darkness of seeds
hinges of shadows' cloud dust or more and
two an orchid of violet fervor (his face, framed in the hills and wet grasses)
skin the flavor of honey blood find shade
in the spiraling darkness behold
her beauty is the legend of
Pagans the blood they heaved as
ballet grace and the drunken love
water for
purity she is her
own legend as calm
seaborn typhoon
or cool summer grass
midnight you’ll find
three flowers
and as she falls in love the tide shivers
and her love
shepherd of men but only as he
reminds us of our mortality
she passed above
his flock for years
and finally
jammed him to Paradise begging forever
(her father smiled)
his life her breath
in a box
a life no less
a life of love
and grasshopper legs

I'll tell you how many times you've done it, and you know how it makes me feel.

At the first step I

counted four heads, you counted 5

in praise of you the upward

swept in places rounding

their faces in mock

precision we hold hands and

hold hands, and

you, gladly, want to share

(what I have taken from you

but a wielded sacrifice is not

a sacrifice atall though I smile

atall though we're nodding for

you’ll endure without listening,

all this repeating like counting

until we all have our numbers, crunch,

I write poetry, too

Insomnia Poem, part XII (and no I'm not just trying to trick out your sympathy, I think)

To fear
dreaming or the
taptap process
remember – at all
the sensation before
sleep? scratching
glass painless
fingernail tear
through the quick
knuckle drop deep through
the mattress and
crusted bloody, hoary dirt
catching fabric weaves, squeezed
skin passing
against the floor
meeting the warm-shell
Earth long forgotten
volcano imagery
hustles my genitals
waists sink and
breathing apparati rise
My body is an
awkward organ: heavier
than I remember
limbs bloating, a thing apart
from the
thickening dream water,
leaves me

Phone Call Pulls me from my Reading, Various Pictures

Today I pretended
than an ex-lover
called me
on the slim black
phone in the corner
of my room

Carpet weighed my steps:
my voice was no expectation
like glass under
a blue sky.
I sat down after I
did not recognize the voice

While she made small
talk I weighed grandiose
plans, imaging one
night of reluctant leg
nudity: fleshy weight
before a testing kiss, then

A realization of
her proximity pricked
me: to exude my
pleasure at the happiness
cherry season had brought her,
I wanted her greed

The way she opens
to the world, and
I was softer: and
louder in my reassurance.
For how she draws who I was
who: I can be

There was never any kiss
She finally says, removed
of the prosaic heart tugs.
Why bring that up at
a time like this?
she holds, lingers in reasons