benevolentsoul

if when our sick mothers sleeping on a couch     lately in their weakness            lay apart with a first edition copy of "synonym's for time"    month of Sundays, coffee            as expected, vocalizes nothing writing desk no entry for verb; clarion    breath managing morpheme's            supplies demand for drip economies possessive form she is made of her, can not     bare her dim beacon will not whimper if some sight is to take her    (some sight of sight not being seen will take her) the bent corner of page 67.

neil young sparks a joint rolls the album into blood on tracks "it's all about the war"       vinyl facts on wax shake his guitar hand             it, too, is about the war how many women stink up his sheets? wonder at the needle under the pillow growing his hair     at the lip of the stage            stung by the science of space neil young does not shower     sleeps face down            limps through his dreams

i. german girls clutch the railing and laugh, paint peels back. camera's flash, feeling, falling from stratosphere to sincere donations: damning tracks at 44th and Navigation the butcher's hand lost in the gravel later attempts to assimilate into a nation adoring l'hotel des invalides bringing a book to the long coffin of Napoleon. maids, called by the dust, surgically re-attach the altar. ii. german girls hold the railing staring over crane made skyline notice, only in their hair do they speak of difference unpronouncable announcement accents: shuffle silence to still born fingers huddled violence to hear; i hear they c

lay her murder down           near the children dressed like stains           dancing the fire 1.  verbing themselves     or     2.  managing their time beneath telephone wires            near the children friends of the weak            sunspot burdens bright phantoms            children pawn fingernails, clipped            kept in jars under the ink                   or          buried accidentally here during harvest season            unaware nothing can come from            a wing, stuck in the black

the magical pellets of soul stopping authority        that remind  and remember us, as the swallowing and therefore        God was there, and Jesus too           they let us wear the skins of tigers        and heard from us, stories of the sun          how it does not bend to our will. guilty, she lifted up her mini-skirt in the bathroom and tucked the thin lining of summer into her skin        God and Jesus whisper to each other,         making words to describe it        each thing said  slowly waiting for the bus             a bumper sticker: watching a blue toyota          God, does not bless a country have to ge

10:1 thrice like pale oak in rapt calm, a pointed 10:2 finger; ashes well fed only alive to think 10:3 vanished where he gazed. words of bitter waters 10:4 hung open, looking out (old woman at daybreak) 10:5 living with dust, the voice of god's language 10:6 were it more whispered. three nooses: free from 10:7 beyond the veil, a harbor endless of form 10:8 against the dry snot on sail's nostrils 10:9 singing seaside evening to young sparks 10:10 now a vain, scarce penultimate bloom 10:11 truer to time, order, and place. the light of dreams 10:12 (a memory of the fabric) seeing in: 10:13 it crawls forward between teeth 10:14 payin

11:1 reply to poetry after Auschwitz: 11:2 the lies innocent and better only by 11:3 keeping today in perfect blindness 11:4 vanity, poverty, violence restrains 11:5 the clicking syrinx. every thought, 11:6 each single act, one cell of reality 11:7 felt with this background. molded eclipse 11:8 at the junction of our lungs, its role 11:9 so small, it should cease to be. step in: 11:10 work with facts, kindled by housing projects 11:11 dwindle torn to sewn, dim likenesses 11:12 the title cannot fully express but 11:13 a wing without feathers in the black 11:14 who can endure the chant of the fateless hour?

i cried, i laid, i will not be afraid my cry in their mouth hear me consumed by sudden night that is in me. Out of the mouth my whole heart and destroyed cities, that shall endure forever. The imagined children love violence. They cut off every side and hear death when i sing. They are all gone and shall never be moved. I have called like a lion full of children, awake and worthy of hell. His mouth devoured the darkness, made brightness before me. I did not teach my hands war, i beat them to declare there is no voice through the earth or the sun. fear is clean and cast to my jaws and all my bones.

i am anchored in New Year's Eve, London, 1984: under the hem of our islands in the brackish gray that melts your country into mine, but even your bird bone hair can not carry the clicking voice of (our) phoenix scream. Your (island) and mine share a bombshell coast (meant to hold) the miniature meteor frag- ments of our welded hearts (A compassionate metaphor for dropping you off the coast into) the eclipse at the junction of our lungs.     embyronic hands attempt to repair     where God situates attention.

Summer drank too much, and buckled my heart to a false Ohio farm. It was May, June, or July when my Brother took me aside down the long, shy curve of a hallway meant to hide his scalpel like precision. My tiny insides would swell and explode leaving his reflection in my eyes immoveable. Then, the things without memory: the wind shuffled, and parachute cards cut through the new worlds distorted curve. Our card castle was ruined.