Follow The Bleeder
Footsteps lead to where they will,
the brick fronts in the downlands surrounding Todt Hill.
An island bears a son born from each borough and none.
On the ferry, licking newspaper and pen tips,
chasing pigeons into green waves.
Foam. At the mouth. At the eyes.
Thirty foot telephone pines
guiding her in. If there is a slip
crushed as her hips sway by.
To Grand Central and the rails and the cans,
cigarette in one and a cannonball in the other,
a razor between cheek and gum,
Go west to the lakes.
Forget everything flowing through veins.
Release the hounds and take the parcels to zero.
Give them time to over grow
watch the concrete skin break
and sit in the fields of creeping life.
Pluck a flower now and then
to place behind an ear.
The sun the governor. Out here.
The hammer a friend. Out here.
The sea in dreams alone.
The seams last artifacts.
The grasses thick and green
waving in the breeze
the five fathers and mothers mythed.
In every red drop
a new seed of home.
Thy Neighbor
Golden as the day you were born.
How can you love anyone
if you cannot love yourself, we know.
My lord, Imlhnyt, I try,
but they do not believe.
Convert or die. I recite to me
in the long hours before dawn
when their time begins
to intersect our own and maps are laid down.
Imlhnyt, can I force them to see?
You laugh and I bray,
our maps inlaid in pink gold,
theirs in paper. In passing we will know,
but before our shoulders brush
for directions, tourists the same in wonderlands unfamiliar,
waving and winking from our sun drenched boats.
Keys
Seek bits of skin from beneath fingernails and find
the dried taste of you waiting for a little water
to free the aromatic angles and planes again.
Settled snowdrift blown from the tip
of an awning into my eyes. Heavy wind.
My alarm clock goes again and I push the switch
to shut its mouth, my hand over yours hours before.
Your tiny teeth chew my palm,
my hack saws chewed your breasts.
Strands of your hair still inside my maw.
The sheets must go. A fine robe on the way to a bath,
a tooth brush, a long Saturday afternoon
with a fine cup of tea and news radio, perhaps.
I heard you collect your shoes, your purse, your phone.
There is always time for talk tomorrow.
Raised arms to stretch aching ribs
I know it will take a few weeks
before the hair your little fingers tore away
grows back on my chest.
Would it have killed you to leave some symmetry?
A yawn, running water that begins to steam my mirror,
reminds me not to clench my teeth
next time I scream "hit me!"
The waste basket is full of red paper and I see
your chuckle, blood rim toothed, grin.
Breath you in. Drink you in. Spilled out,
vomiting. The doorbell. The spins. The doorbell again.
The peephole. The doorbell. The spins. The deadbolt.
"I am sorry, I forgot my keys."
It is fine. Look around. They are in the key tray, silly.
"Thanks. Thank you so much."
Sure. We should do that again some time.
"Maybe. Put some ice on your eye."
Call me.
The spins. The deadbolt. The bath.
Closing my eyes, one black and you'd,
my stomach is full. Breath steam
to clear the last of you from inside my head
before I bury my bones back in our bed.
Grey Byrd and Yellow Byrd
Curled beside you beneath the waxing moon,
sky darkening to stroked velvet from afternoon's denim,
you blow smoke rings that float to frame
the stars winking to life like bulbs on an uncertain circuit.
Between the rings, your six foot talons
spread the dinner table plates of the armor along my neck
and you puff butane blue plumes of flames
that tickle my skin like the pricks of an evergreen's limbs
and I cannot help blushing and belching
bright red and orange balls of fire every time your breath
touches me, singeing the hillside black
and lighting the cirrus clouds, thinning overhead, like
100 yard garden lanterns against the night.
original works of parts
