16 September 2020

Postcard 190

 

She sits upon a pile of old bicycle wheels -- bent spoke and flat

rubber tires cracked. She spins How she is upright is mystery

 

She stays upright in mysterious power. Gears and wires press

into her legs, here and there trailing red welts and stripped skin

 

Punctured as a tire and tube

 Her legs -- soft and strong -- press

 

into those things extruded & stamped

dead ends of kinetic life


She is a still but singing ring -- the gyre alight

What can be held by broken welds on rusted pipe?

 

And does whatever orbits like degrade? Only

as her tremendous weight pulls in embrace

 

And does whatever orbits escape -- annihilate

and free? Only in her light release

 

Orange pedal reflectors -- a scatter of photons

in the asphault shattered weeds. Her feet

 

sit solid as Atlas and share his dancing joy

She sits upon a pile of old bicycle wheels

                                                -- spins

Postcard 189

 

envelope me

you fold like fine paper my

two fingers in creamy eternity

i was convinced i was the well -- oily and deep

i am gutted by that poison drink

envelope me 

ivory bright sheet clean me tonguing

desperate words along your supple crease -- aspiring

to the mighty pen. tattoo my name

in penetrating ink

envelope me

your spool recieved but on edge

im bleeding through seeking tear

-- smudge unto me

as i smear unto you

envelope me

with clear

drive me from you

r fibers -- rub yourself alone

and free -- erase me 

envelope me

my words foreign to you

muddy untrue -- wrap them up

precisely send them off far 

off into discarding world

envelope me unworth you

13 September 2020

Postcard 188

 
 
Oh Faith
 
Once again, I have taken mad religion too seriously
Which is it -- gods or over the counter manuals?
I'm trying to convince with show dont tell
Jesus Christ! "Thankfully my lover-priest, my sacrifice, aother
found succor in these cruel witches I know of," for instance
 
Like the old Doctor had firm capability -- like me but not muddy. Clean
Sterile. professional. What you desire but pristine. I'm tired
of trying to convince how desperate life can be. Get it
while you can. How tender can we see ourselves
in awesome relief? I drink you like the sea
What can you doubt? Feel my hands, my scars. I am here
 
Thank god I found relief. You leave me
a bag of teeth & two commerce manifestos -- Gottman PHd
his bland apocalypse in a dustjacket. Are you the whore
of Babylon or daughter of Danville CA Cheryl and Steve
 
Magic. Witches. Gods. Moons. I drank dangerously
I worshipped, bled, went nightswimming 
in your bottomless sea. For this? Lifetime
movie eight essential dates betrayal. You 
betrayed me. Better watch what standards you seek
I take all this magic talk serious after all.
 
I'm taking a sabbatical

17 February 2020

Postcard 187


The full world has been conquered

When he hears the sound
a horrible sound
the scream of a horse
you see his eyes
He hears it and knows

with that shot
his horse had died
a percussion rending time
And his eyes, they change
in that moment
He dies with his horse

Like a child he named
'self' 'horse' 'bullet' 'time'
Fence and saddle become
the only named things
between him and horse
As a dying man, a man
dying with a horse
all that slips away:
Man - away on padded feet
Horse - away as sand
Time and Bullet - fold up like water
Brittle self relaxes
passes as breath

Oh serpent underfoot
this is what you meant:
an unconquered world
Two fanged explosion
What now separates
asp from bullet?
man from horse?
woman from rib?
Likely stories, serpent
replies, fencemending

The full world must be unconquered
and I wonder, will I ever
join a horizon line upon a horse?
Will my equine breath
mingle with steaming tulle?
When will my horse age be and
when will death do its undividing?

10 February 2020

Postcard 186


Bodies come and go, break and grow
Let cripple be a word that only serves for souls

I finally have man's own dog and understand
each sweet impulse unchecked by thought

I'd had a whale's age -- submerged. And they still
surface in dreams sometimes like mother's breath

These dog's days are the good god's glass
on my own inadequacy. My larger self --

always theoretical -- is light as hollow boned bird
is round as cat catch bird as catch can

A self rolling spine insensate. As in hand in air,
as in jaws. All all Holy Holy

Kick a dog for guilt, though. A lame
and grounded bird is fierce, then cold

A wounded cat -- tiger noble, tiger gold
Kick your dog to know your crippled soul

These coming dog years, perhaps
a decade, perhaps a score,


they will be my measure. I shall find
what my worth is as I become old

07 February 2020

Postcard 185

It was one of those days crested in tears, swelling and trembling as a rough gray ocean seems,
in its fullness, to be higher than the battered sand. Higher than my own eyes.
I know this cannot be true. I'd be submerged, but I feel the trembling possibility
with each tremendous wave, clapping upon itself, sliding up the shore with a hiss.
Between the gray sky and gray sea, the sand glows gold.

It was a day like that with trembling sorrow more delicious than despair.
Colors jump sharp and the wind dances across skin in small salty steps.
A day when bad news would not surprise. Not bad news of commerce or politic, but
news of loss. A death day crisp and bitter as a wild apple.

My son calls  -- angry and confused. This is the heartbreak I conceived in him and foresaw
as clear and bright as battered sand. He's been up for days -- madness? spirit walk? amphetamine?
He has fragments and much disconnect to say, in essence: What have you done to me?
How have you made me so? My tears crest and provide that wide angle lens
through time and its tides. Yes, so clear to me, this has happened before.

I see my decades of man's work. I want to wield the golden bough to tell him
Kill your idols, kill you kings. I want to hand him the sharpest blade -- sharp as light --
and my own bent neck, thankful, it is a tear crested day. That tool is double sharp
and we are fleshy beings served by myth but not myth ourselves. I am sorry I say to him.
I know I often failed. I am sorry, but please know how much I did try.

28 January 2020

Postcard 184


I must love this man,
who's every bent was born of hammer's blow
But must I?

I must love this man
where man is a cracked, chipped and shattered shell
mended poorly with ego and will
But must I?

I must love this man
who's peering underneath is not man but crippled being
But must I love this man?
I must

Must I love this man
who's twin is a ghost, ever tugging at his sleeve?
I must

Must I love this being
who's center is collapse
who sets pillars in sluice sand
who's edifice is gilded crumble?
I must

But must I?

I must love this man
who death-sat his own hateful provenance
who is wrapped in every twisted father's coil?

But must I?
I must love this man
who through mad power resonates

I must love this being
who must collapse or be brought down
But must I?

Yes. This being, labelled poorly, man
who's redemption is likely death, must be met with love
This man who's angry works may be neither healed nor undone

I must love this man
iron orange where blood should be
-- same flesh as me
same but magnified

I must.

12 November 2019

Postcard 183

Inasmuch as you did to the least of these, you did it to me.

It should be clear by now, that what
you did not do to these least beings
is what you have done to your own self

There ought to be music filling these streets
but you arent singing. Tightly
as a chain constrains its own steel
from ringing out, Wraiths!
Arent you starving for every single thing
you hunger for?

Call hunger virtue, call fullfillment vice and
there is your ghastly security. There are
no starvation songs. The least of these is
a flowing spring, juicy with experience
outside your door locked safety

You did as you did to me, as to
them as to yourself -- no son nor
daughter of divinity, no prophet
of singing,  you have refused
your own abundance

You shall have none and
shall lose even that you have
that false security

17 October 2019

Postcard 182


I was sick and in prison and you did not visit me.
It is the unknowing of what is wide
The broadness these four walls, bodylike, enclose

Are there parties? There must be parties,
celebrations, wild nights: tremulous
and frightening imaginings in this tight cell

Roads and choices. Are there new flavors?
We miss the old tastes, bonded to a feeling
on lips, in arms, on eyes, on fingertips

There must be stories to be told
with more color than these slate grey stones
than could be believed, that would

leave us with nights of ceiling gazing suspicion
and light argument between us -- the only color
we recall is blue, a shred of some free sky

You did not visit and it is the unknowing of why
Perhaps you are too occupied with work and family
all those obligations of life rolling by

But then it occurs to me: perhaps
you are too in prison, bound
by hard lines & the same mysteries

Postcard 181



I was naked and you did not clothe me.
Well, thats not quite true. You wrapped me
with control and draped me with your gaze
Like cut exotic flowers wilting in a vase

But again you strip me naked with your lust
just to fig leaf me with your shame. Then you
spread me across old chain-link and corragate
Flaking shopping bags, brittle water jugs, my

delicious flesh - wasteland trash. Desert junk --
unspooled wire, coppper stripped, abandoned
cars without tires, windows, seats, doors,
ripped of any value, rusting in the sun, brown

as my skin. Single tennis shoes & old t-shirts
You say that I am waste, but you came 
to pick me up in new and shiny trucks, you
had airconditioned rooms to put me in. Even

then, you did not clothe me. You had
doctors come and pull me apart so 
you could spread your gaze within. As if
hate turned on itself was somehow there

As if kindness toward any 
being was your unforgiven sin