Friday, June 29, 2012


Another's touch startles the cosmos within your own skin, sends objects out of orbit, constellations falling outward and inward.

Your body becomes a foreign living landscape where geysers of sensation distort perception, and beauty and horror are banal daily bread.

How women smell!
The living hell of 
their proportions.
The living hell of
your proportions.

Your skull crashing through innocence forever.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

[fragment 3]

Her crotch was lit.
Signs on lampposts
pointed toward it,

but boys flitting
around the maypole
confused artifice and art.

Her crotch was wet
with death whose
stench filled the sidewalks

with boys who humped
the benches confused
and crying, Mother!

The mother elm in
Prospect Park is raised
on a hill so its leaves

don't spoil the ground
with affection,
the crotch of her limbs

is broken, but the limbs,
with wire supports,
are still up and open.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

When We're Dead

We're lying in bed reading and I'm thinking of when we're dead. The path to death really -- neither are as dark as they seem. In fact, when I get up to get another book and you watch my reentering the room, I say, You looking at my Adonis body? You say, Pose. I mock a statue at the Met.

Now the light is on your book and face and you're nearing my favorite expression: focus oblivious to everything else.

This is about death, I guess, because the path to it is filled with these forgetful moments. When we're gone, no one will know them, but I'm glad to now notice them.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

[fragment 2]

How much pain gluts this little frame, so hard shivering she's rising from the pavement, inner centrifuge thickening her blackness. It's so heavy the smoke falls out the mouths of third-story windows, under which her naked body tears at passing faces of morning commuters. Gaping moans of broken windows, black baby biting her finger, marigolds crowned with soot surround the spruce reaching out the street over the smoke, flowers and toddler.