| pollock parchment impressions are only ever left for us in futures;
they are exiled, like us, they are empty things,
copies of themselves, adroit in dalliance, the
dark behind your eyes, optical recollections
who live thinking they are not made of
what their flesh is made of.
i have always been scared of things
without meaning, spent lifetimes searching
for numbers, counting echoes,
saving sounds forming concentric scribbles
in the pockets of my trousers,
rivulets of the accent i could always taste,
but never see, on your tongue, blind memories
vomiting braille in a code we couldn’t decipher.
you are there, at all times and infinite, a ghost
soiled in butter and jam, my old shadow
dripping with sky water, smocked in canvas
and exactly like you always were.same.
Posted 6/28/2010 at 9:01 PM - 4 eprops - 2 comments |
| long (v., intransitive) Heard once.
The coil; the dark brown tangle
falls. A set mouth, twist up
from the side. It calls, as a
watchword or tremor the skin warm as
sand. sift through the
fingers, this skin
this tangle, hear me say
the name and
know your
pull. Posted 6/28/2010 at 11:34 AM - 16 eprops - 20 comments |
| they disgorge it arrow
strikes
the moon,
and pierces,
falling, leaves
a deep wound,
unmendable by
night's blackness;
out pours silver
blood, splashing out
into blue-stem field;
resting mirror now,
solitary iris, widens
with amaze as
midnight's white,
suspended fruit
drains out into
crescent closed-
eye curve;
blinks out
then, into
quiet
rest.
Posted 6/28/2010 at 3:56 PM - 22 eprops - 21 comments
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