1,060 Readings


Thought thickens in the veins and swells.
Bright arteries run into the pressures of the dark.

-Robert Duncan

There are no pieces, just a point to

I look on at my insides, a cut shaft of
fissuring obsidian.


“Crush them up, they won’t bleed.”
“That much is over with, I can
tell you that.” “-I’m leaving.”

A silent visit. The music-player
broken. No one moves. He leans over,
plucks a loose eyelash.


The flower wilts at the stench of
the street whose current carries those
who can’t make it

To whose old money names make them face an exhibit
of synthetic memories they resent on specious


Piles. Everything arranged into broken,
fleshy imperfections.

Something tells me the horizon is my
name when I was in heaven.

Rubble that pitches over into a more
cobbled order – a map, a face.


Low tide’s muddy grit steaming in a
side-hit morning. Wisps, waifs
rise like seaweed anchored &
undulating in the bracken of
ocean floor midnight, not
requiring this support of sun.


Electro-blue of the vacuum tube dusting
a thick thrush of faces, near
enough to – in the same gesture as –
swimming over an open locket.

“The sun used to follow me.” (Pause.)
“The moon too.” Through air filled
with solder and sapphires, cosmic
meiosis in a neon tube.

The train from the north is blue.


A boy named Syrus George Halifax
Trinidad. Bridges, tunnels,
a Cisco truck, a stick in the spoke.

Wrestles his emotive reflex. A grimacing
alchemist. An addict of pleasantries.


When he doesn’t remember the system
of working things, I remember a
story. There were many men
honorable enough to dress even
their steeds in gold and silk
and they also, not only swords,
had blades in their boot.


Monsters rolled their eyes and dice
and broke the heaven’s bread. A
pinhole of light breaks through –
amber kitchen light – wake up – I’m


A strange scar. Half-scrubbed henna
shot through with scar tissue
the color of make-up, weaving its
way through august heather like a
river of sand,

muscles beneath the mandibles of one
standing on a trapdoor


Creek slotted full of fat summer trout.
Slotted with stripes of lead-lined
and brilliant light. She waits for
her most delicate, wet thoughts to
become the property of others –


When he’s on his back, he calls his
lovers down out of the bodies of
eagles; when he blacks out they
touch down like mosquitoes and
tickle his urethra. He wakes up
with kidney stones.


A seagull aching in the head. Between
compulsions: compulsion. Headland,
compulsion. Hanging in the steady
off-shore over the interstate.


Something mercurial.

The quickgone airwake of a butterfly redrawn
with ions and paint, a
sinking skyship.

Pick a straw.


I could try. What I should do is put my
foot down, then put it up.

Posted 08/29/11
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