431 Readings | 2 Ratings
SOLVE ET COAGULA
Love begins with a bench:
(here I'm coming in secret
barefooted
to smell the beeswax)
Nous and Logos
belong together
their union
is life
I ask the singer what the priest is singing.
He tells me it is a funeral dirge written
in the ancient Yi language.
(We like to play
at dying: there’s our
unknown crime.)
the voice in the distance
is incomprehensible
but clear and beautiful
Girls her age
took new-edged blades
to cut in mourning
for these curls
of their soft hair
she without the art of putting
her skirt over her ankles
the figure of wisdom
(which we encounter frequently
in Gnostic systems) indicates
a relationship
he number can it god he: morning mist and you survive several fights about organizing rhythms into bed sheets can you pick leaves in the desert or the alps
she vibe the last only if infinite ratio she: frozen only if confident, she pulses the coming trains of Brooklyn subway ride, afternoon the way statues lift arms under early light
can you morning eavesdrop only if they round salve maria
sal-vay maria they left church steps in order to ring faces like ministers
mother: bertolli light she grabbed on the fist full vapor relic out of the marches, veronica the planets, they seem fidgety like on bus seats
father: only to sleep five more times only if they bottle horizon and we grow a bit after fighting they hope for starfishing night night night night night surround the population embraces
mirror
I write this way because it happened to me. We act this way because it happened to us. Trees are not gentle. They push themselves through earth. Push themselves past sky. I write this way because it happened long ago. I see tree outline framework. I feel indignation tree bark feasting empty sky. Trees used to be sky. Unfortunate tree breakages in the sky.
I write this way because it happened to me. The trees bring language up, vertical, above the complacency of soil. Language makes false stories about what happened, long ago, when I was barely beneath sky.
It happened to you, too. Remember. You’ll get mad when you remember.
We were all children once. Before our first utterance, we learned pollen language. We learned to speak of trees, and how they rupture vast expanse. Later, we learned the silence of not speaking of trees, to keep hush the vultures of every morning when they plant sycamores upright. We feel the sting of pollen against our brushed playboy stomachs. The sting of tree bark on our thighs. The opening of soil to plant milk seed. The vibration/tug of earthworm in mud.
It happened long ago. I have no visible proof. Fathers leave traces of mud. I understand your mother hides in forests and she opens wide when the trees grow dark. I understand that you lost yourself there, too. I understand that you denied your walk through the forest and saw it later as a brisk walk at the start of day. But it was really night that time and there have been other times in similar state parks when you saw the outline of wildlife against the moon. And you denied that sight and later thought you had only seen the hollow shadows of trees. Think again. You’ll get mad when you remember.
I write this way because it happened to me. It also happened to you. We struggle with the way we act when we see the clamor of thistle in the mildew of how we keep ourselves hidden, in language, in the defrost of wishing to devour each memory of our still birthed yet alive robbing.
the one time we stopped
looking beyond the traffic
we could finally see our
two faces situated
beneath the embers
of streetlamps
this light dwindles
into discord
we couldn’t form ourselves
into knitted funeral costumes
the way we did in ocean towns
this building could be the same
as the granite street
where we found ourselves
more deciduous trees
drape earthmasks
like death sheets
over the hardwood floor
there is a security checkpoint
at La Guardia airport
you are in a taxi
pulling away
he never loved
another person
the way he loved
the ceramic washing bowl
she hid underneath
her bed
Each time opposition is set up to make sense, the couple is destroyed. A universal battlefield. Death is always at work.
The morning after
I had to read several books
to forget the night before
In my copy of Otto Rank’s Doppelganger
all of the important pages
stuck together
I thought I had spring-cleaned
his sperm
from my dress
sitting cross-legged
the irony was that
cross-legged sitting
breaks the flow of blood
to the brain
I will never know what its like
to wake up beside myself
(o how I loved her
her fingers felt
just like mine)
a candle next to a hurricane
fire won’t save
the avenue from flooding
Norea told Noah to pack his bag and build a ship. She took her two favorite giraffes, one male, one female. He took two llamas – one male, on female. They had two children – one male, one female. Noah was male and Norea female. The morning after, the rest of the world was gone and Norea told Noah
that in the jungles, many animals
used sexual intercourse
as a means of saying hello
as well as farewell
one male
and one female
The morning after
I could only look in the mirror
lovingly
in Otto Rank’s Doppelganger,
there is a photo
of a woman
with long black hair
the morning after we left our spaces in line
for personal development my lips settled like two lovers meeting we past the funeral department we went down to floral we went to the jewelry counter settled upon a nice death ring to bring us closer to warning our memories need a lunar eclipse to guide them into knowing
the morning after
I ran toward you with a death wish
and I noticed you looked
just
like
me
(here I'm coming in secret
barefooted
to smell the beeswax)
Nous and Logos
belong together
their union
is life
I ask the singer what the priest is singing.
He tells me it is a funeral dirge written
in the ancient Yi language.
(We like to play
at dying: there’s our
unknown crime.)
the voice in the distance
is incomprehensible
but clear and beautiful
Girls her age
took new-edged blades
to cut in mourning
for these curls
of their soft hair
she without the art of putting
her skirt over her ankles
the figure of wisdom
(which we encounter frequently
in Gnostic systems) indicates
a relationship
he number can it god he: morning mist and you survive several fights about organizing rhythms into bed sheets can you pick leaves in the desert or the alps
she vibe the last only if infinite ratio she: frozen only if confident, she pulses the coming trains of Brooklyn subway ride, afternoon the way statues lift arms under early light
can you morning eavesdrop only if they round salve maria
sal-vay maria they left church steps in order to ring faces like ministers
mother: bertolli light she grabbed on the fist full vapor relic out of the marches, veronica the planets, they seem fidgety like on bus seats
father: only to sleep five more times only if they bottle horizon and we grow a bit after fighting they hope for starfishing night night night night night surround the population embraces
mirror
I write this way because it happened to me. We act this way because it happened to us. Trees are not gentle. They push themselves through earth. Push themselves past sky. I write this way because it happened long ago. I see tree outline framework. I feel indignation tree bark feasting empty sky. Trees used to be sky. Unfortunate tree breakages in the sky.
I write this way because it happened to me. The trees bring language up, vertical, above the complacency of soil. Language makes false stories about what happened, long ago, when I was barely beneath sky.
It happened to you, too. Remember. You’ll get mad when you remember.
We were all children once. Before our first utterance, we learned pollen language. We learned to speak of trees, and how they rupture vast expanse. Later, we learned the silence of not speaking of trees, to keep hush the vultures of every morning when they plant sycamores upright. We feel the sting of pollen against our brushed playboy stomachs. The sting of tree bark on our thighs. The opening of soil to plant milk seed. The vibration/tug of earthworm in mud.
It happened long ago. I have no visible proof. Fathers leave traces of mud. I understand your mother hides in forests and she opens wide when the trees grow dark. I understand that you lost yourself there, too. I understand that you denied your walk through the forest and saw it later as a brisk walk at the start of day. But it was really night that time and there have been other times in similar state parks when you saw the outline of wildlife against the moon. And you denied that sight and later thought you had only seen the hollow shadows of trees. Think again. You’ll get mad when you remember.
I write this way because it happened to me. It also happened to you. We struggle with the way we act when we see the clamor of thistle in the mildew of how we keep ourselves hidden, in language, in the defrost of wishing to devour each memory of our still birthed yet alive robbing.
the one time we stopped
looking beyond the traffic
we could finally see our
two faces situated
beneath the embers
of streetlamps
this light dwindles
into discord
we couldn’t form ourselves
into knitted funeral costumes
the way we did in ocean towns
this building could be the same
as the granite street
where we found ourselves
more deciduous trees
drape earthmasks
like death sheets
over the hardwood floor
there is a security checkpoint
at La Guardia airport
you are in a taxi
pulling away
he never loved
another person
the way he loved
the ceramic washing bowl
she hid underneath
her bed
Each time opposition is set up to make sense, the couple is destroyed. A universal battlefield. Death is always at work.
The morning after
I had to read several books
to forget the night before
In my copy of Otto Rank’s Doppelganger
all of the important pages
stuck together
I thought I had spring-cleaned
his sperm
from my dress
sitting cross-legged
the irony was that
cross-legged sitting
breaks the flow of blood
to the brain
I will never know what its like
to wake up beside myself
(o how I loved her
her fingers felt
just like mine)
a candle next to a hurricane
fire won’t save
the avenue from flooding
Norea told Noah to pack his bag and build a ship. She took her two favorite giraffes, one male, one female. He took two llamas – one male, on female. They had two children – one male, one female. Noah was male and Norea female. The morning after, the rest of the world was gone and Norea told Noah
that in the jungles, many animals
used sexual intercourse
as a means of saying hello
as well as farewell
one male
and one female
The morning after
I could only look in the mirror
lovingly
in Otto Rank’s Doppelganger,
there is a photo
of a woman
with long black hair
the morning after we left our spaces in line
for personal development my lips settled like two lovers meeting we past the funeral department we went down to floral we went to the jewelry counter settled upon a nice death ring to bring us closer to warning our memories need a lunar eclipse to guide them into knowing
the morning after
I ran toward you with a death wish
and I noticed you looked
just
like
me
Posted 08/01/09