dolor

half-finished
heavy
poured out upon this
thankless ground
the air itself punctured
precisely, in
carefully measured intervals
by shards of silver
stagnant
silence
when, again,
the world zooms out
tips on its side--feints--faints--falls--
the way it used to when
back when
and then
again
the sickening silent lurch
and turn into a wild
skid, air cracking like windows
bursting into clingfilm-covered coarse
quartz sand
the very ephemeral air, the one and only air,
solid as a jewel and
twice as sharp.

forge

down comes the hammer in the center of the town
escape the beat of concrete feet
come tearing up the ground
steel yourself for twenty tons
press into eighty-four
hear your blood escape itself
and fathom sixty more
surrounded by a thousand lights
all piercing bright and clean
close your eyes control your fears
plug into the machine

up comes the signal in the middle of the street
conceal your heart and take apart
each future that you meet
avail yourself of ninety pints
yet drown in thirty-six
feel your own soul devour yourself
belt down the galling mix
filled as you are with guillotine
and wine and tears and bread
close your eyes forget to smile
you cant escape your head

preach

the sky is a damp and
mealy gray.
the engine of the bus roars,
inescapable and
deafening and
i can barely see out
of the rain-flecked windows.
the city is dark and
slick with almost-ice:
fat white heavy raindrops
congealing in the gutters,
in muddy holes dug by great
groaning yellow-black
anonymous machines,
in droplets on my glasses and
my waterproof.
I know my own mind, my own
soul, and
it is heavy like this
rain. it is cold like this
rain. and
i do not limit myself,
but i am limited
nonetheless.

Mariana II

it's useless, trying:
every hour slips by cold as a fish
slippery as a hagfish
burrowing into the belly
of a whale.
let it be known that i have only
resisted this darkness
insofar as darkness has resisted
me.
except it isn't only darkness.
it is the deep pressure of the sea floor
it is the crush of a thousand atmospheres
it is the silent, unyielding flow of brine
and picked-clean bones settling in silt
and numbers falling forward
across the face
of a clock.

knock thrice and fall back

measure out the rest of your life
in ounces and pints--
cups, gallons, CCs, liters--
all of your memories bitter-bitter-sweet
beginnings tasting like endings
endings tasting like rum hot
in the back of the throat and
wadded kleenex and
dust.
it takes thirty seconds to shed
a lifetime of cold
hot flashes prickling the skin in waves
leaving you colder than before
and contemplating darker shadows.
sleep is a myth
and dreams, rest, peace, comfort,
all of its fabled trappings:
sirens calling unwitting soldiers to come
bleed themselves dry upon the rocks.
do not succumb to the light
that flashes outside of your window.
it signals helicopters.
it does not even know that you exist.

fortissimo

there is nothing i can say
     that hasnt already been said

there is nothing i can do
     to silence voices in my head

so i lean back on the anger
     of deflection and cliche

hold back hot tears and

(for the sake of rhyming) pray

...to no one in particular,
     no god, goddess, soul, or spirit

even my own reflection seems
     too ill-disposed to hear it

ive been cornered--captured--caged
    insulted--made so small

i suppose it is a wonder i have
     words left in me at all

letting go is hard
     holding on is harder still

warmth seeps thru to my fingertips.

ive naught but time
(and hope)

to

kill

theory of mind

I

hulking skyscrapers leer at each other in the glinting sunlight
filled to the brim with an exquisite unhappiness, resignation,
muddling complacency...
sometimes I need this concrete-block-built biodome
and sometimes I can't handle it at all.
I am a poet
but I am told it is against my nature.
There are many reasons given.
I am of two minds about it:
it is true that I do not see what other people see--
but, then again, I see what other people do not see.
like when my eye catches on the red light
clinging like a tick to a brick smokestack in the distance
framed by muddy damp gray groaning sky
and the voices, the silences, in the room that my body inhabits
tumble over each other, splintering against my rocky countenance;
ossified society (ancient structures draped in the elaborate masks
that people wear, by choice or otherwise, scaffolded by
a strange belief in some grand and inscrutable ideal)
finds me unbearable and insubordinate.
meanwhile i find myself trying to decide
what the red light is for and
what it means

II

e e cummings ripped a hole
in the space-time continuum
because i didn't like his poetry.
i didn't say anything to him about it.
it would have been impolite
to make a scene, and besides
the damage had already been done

III

between ragged glimpses of hours torn to shreds
and flapping in the air

i can hear something, but i cannot make it out.
i feel it in the fibers of my muscles.

this silence-emptied cache of dreams
holds secrets, inopportunities, for the listening ear:

so close to superstition and empty graces,
seated at our table when we're not there.

i cannot remember dropping off to sleep without
the cliff, the painful drop and shatter at the end.

it's time to root my teeth, to fortify my skull;
replace my eyes when i awaken.

to shout into darkness, make it hear me--
sit and wonder while i exhale my old inflections

Words are my Weapon, and my Wound,
and they are all i've ever had.

IV

cast-iron pall on a stony bitter night.
the same vagaries resurfacing. as always.
feel your way around it: i cannot help you from here
my tongue, my teeth, are burning;
my throat is filled with flames.
if i were a dragon, this would be reasonable,
but i am not. make of it what you will.
inspiration curls around my ears,
spreads over my skin like blood
leaking from an outstretched, accidental proto-scar.
whether i heed its call, or not,
whether i breathe this fire, or not,
sometimes i see the Great Gears turning
(or, rather, imagine that i see them, as they are
metaphorical in nature)
and i know that i know nothing
yet i feel that i feel everything.
and the difference between knowing and feeling,
between feeling and knowing,
is the difference between the keening cry
of heedlessness 
and the texture of formality.