Monday, March 19, 2012

I become impossibly
a lullaby a lullaby
whispering into
darkness
impossibly
impossibly
echoing through
the embers of each

dissident dream
moving
forward and
backward until
there is only ash

utterly worn out
utterly clear

this is when you
tell me
I'm a ghost

that I've been a ghost
all along

and though the bats
always come back

and the crows
always come back

they will not recognize me crying
they did not recognize me dying

you tell me I cannot
leave this place
that I am

as much this farmhouse
as this farmhouse is me

as the tiny eye holes of my eyes
are cul-de-sacs
for wayward shadows


as my abandoned grin
is a gorge 
for a chorus 
of yellow jackets


you tell me
staying still is always
an ambush for bodies


you tell me
that father is now time


that mother is the white
walls that hold me
for all time


that the creek
is every 
word I've ever spoken


and out climbed love
and out climbed hate


pretending to be light
pretending to be cameras flashing
pretending to be bats wings
pretending to be children


praying for 
a long dark night of the soul
for cold hard stone
for shadows alone
for the long road home


you say you want
to find 
the unconditional self


but you have to begin
while I'm asleep


so you echo
through the embers
of each lullaby impossibly
moving forward
and backward
until there is only sleep

little boneless
little skinless

dream sparrows
to my eyelids

one facing upwards
one facing downwards
turned completely inside out

until they become
black holes
meteorites crashing
the fringe of voices

before they are
divided
among several hells

Sunday, March 18, 2012

you seal me in the cave
in the bedroom
where children
were raised
for three days
and three nights

without food water light
sound or any sensory input

other than the cold
hard stone of
the cave floor and walls

to prove myself
unconditionally

by translocating
my physical
body to
the outside of
the sealed cave entrance

you call it
the long dark night of the soul

you say that many
who have tried
went insane
or died in the process

not merely because of isolation
and utter darkness
but because
it opened their subconscious
unleashing all their inner demons

you say that to succeed
I must make peace
with darkness
both internally and externally

the first night
as I can tell
as it is all night

I run along the road
and into the wood
under leaves
weeping

until I become
the groans
of an old forest

the earth as it was
before methods
of perception

the second night
as I can tell
as it is all night

I remove my legs
my arms
my genitals

my eyes ears nose
mouth head
and all my entrails

and lay there heart
beating open
its rib cage

a senseless
trial of strength

the third night
as I can tell
as it is all night

I am an abandoned farmhouse
and I am on fire
and there is a family

of five inside
of me

they run to the balcony
and father
leaps down first
to catch the children

but the children panic
and run
back inside
pursued by mother

the remains of all four
later found
together in the ashes

hands tightly clasping
the entrance of the cave
you say that sometimes
people become
ghosts and that those ghosts

sometimes get trapped
in still-life
pawing unconditionally
at shadows of passersby

that sometimes they become
the rotten floorboards
the old white walls
the low ceilings
the uneven
staircase
to nurtured rooms
to caves captured

on bedroom walls
with teeth
shaped like
yellow jackets

a newborn baby
grieving for
the pin-pricked dead

through the windows
it vanishes

crucified under a microscope
of the usual grinning face

even after life
even among the bones

a dull gunshot
made playmate
of an old white
woman's mouth

the carpet
the wallpaper
the caterpillar tread

staggering for some
distance and
falling in full view

a meteorite in the hands
of young lovers

their arms flying off
their legs flying off

the erupted luggage
of their babies
swept out
and away
across the earth

Saturday, March 17, 2012

you say I am a light bulb
in the back
of your throat

an idea
you can't quite swallow

a ladybird
choking
the caught thought

singing your throat
is on fire

and your children are gone
all except one

for he has crept
under the floorboards

to make a wish
belonging to
yesterday's promise

Friday, March 16, 2012

returning to the cave
where baby's were
nurtured

out climbed love
and out climbed hate

one facing upwards
one facing downwards

their shadows evacuating visibly

suddenly we feel much stronger one said
suddenly we feel much stronger one said

there I lay on the floor
leaking and seeping
flames filling all space

you see this apple one said
you see this world one said

and together they turned a key
made of bone and dream

hunted by lightning
and thunder
bridges and creeks

and old farmhouses
and older farm hands

and for a moment
mending everything

all space was cold

as if they had picked
the skull empty
in search
of something to eat
you say you want
to get to
know me better

that you've never
loved anyone
quite the same

before you tell me
you want to
begin while I'm asleep

you call it finding
the unconditional self

so I sit on the staircase
the one by
the front door

waiting until my body
becomes atrophied
and my head

after leaning against
the white wall
becomes part white wall

and I can see and feel
the beginning of everything

how the door opens
to my helpless
body now staircase

how the door opens
to my head now
partially white wall
partially human being

and you
halved by sunlight
unconvinced as to whether

you will reside here
knowing that to get upstairs
to reach the unconditional self

you have to walk over me
passing my halved head torn

between feeling the fibers
of each log resist gravity
and seeing you

imitating the sun
like a torrent on a cliff
the shed behind the old
farmhouse is where
the conditional self
burrows waiting
for sunset
feeding on
feet of passersby
on their meek imprints

waiting for claw tracks
of stars the misty
ballerinas the
trickling spiders
the weeds weeping
gutless and brainless

half-illuminated for the weapons
of enemies for sea monsters
for the sphinx for eyelids
to have finished
crowing the skyline
shut in behind his teeth

waiting for the spears
the banners
the lungs deep
in breath the indiscretions
the blackened faces of hyenas

swallowed by his entire face
as if nothing ever
happened as if my wings

had never grown stiff
my brains never
ambushed by
all the strength of sunset

by the keyhole in
your pocket
the one you have to
close your eyes to see
sometimes when you're not looking
I crawl down beneath
the floorboards

beneath the rotten wood
and pretend
I am an atrophied angel

blown clear from heaven
on a fierce
and mighty wind

having landed by the north
entrance of the bridge
by the creek

where the old man
who is not really
a man at all

but a pair of old
overalls sewn
into the gravel road

removes my wings
and places them
upon his feet

which are not actually feet
but a pair of old hymnals
long since forgotten

by the church used now
only to prop windows
to listen to sermons

about obedience and regret
about the atrophied
hands of Christ

used as paperweights
by fugitives
to avoid drifting

deeper into the black hole
the black hole
that was once a puma

a puma without any legs
head or tail
at the south entrance

of the bridge
beside the creek
where two yellow jackets

sometimes confused
with honey bees
beat their wings

lancing with small barbs
the dense coat
of its black and crowded body

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

while taking Polaroids
I take one of my
hand pointing
at the prolonged
applause of the conditional self

somehow his feet
are old
floorboards
rotting from neglect

somehow his arms
are hollow
walls housing
yellow jacket nests

somehow his guts
are all the
Polaroids I take
including the one
of my hand pointing
at his prolonged applause

somehow his head
is the broken
windowpane where
the old white woman
with old white hair
and an old white dress

stands warning me
of the door
in the road
rather
the conflicting emotions

swerving between love
and hate
between unstressed syllables

swallowing a reservoir
of universal secrets
that used to be an ocean
I take Polaroids
randomly and
in quick succession

because like ghosts
in movies
the conditional self
is only seen in vain

heavily it flies
in cataleptic
applause
at my attempt

to slip it between
the atomic particles
of a caught thought
when the conditional self
seeks to awaken
you you say

it will probably
echo an
improbable truth

into my mouth
confusing
uvula for light

a crow on the heap
of slack-skin speech

and for a moment
mending everything

I will hear
its little
shadow making
little shadow sounds

until that moment when
the trees are closed forever
and the streets are closed forever

and it begins laughing
at the long
sad face
of my universe

as it starts out
in search
of something to eat
the telephone rings
and when I
answer it
I hear
the sound
of wings beating
and then overtaken
by a fierce and mighty wind

then the old farmhouse
begins expanding
and contracting
like the large diaphragm
of a very small universe

still-lives of old farmhouses
tea kettles and pears
fall from hollow walls

heaving yellow jackets
saying in swerves
I love and hate

every season framed
and hung
detaches and falls
to the hardwood floor

where you are still
digging

entering more closely
with every step
the finely
crafted shadows
of the conditional self
when I die
it is
because
someone
has batted

my nest from
the hollow wall
of the old farmhouse

the paper-like
pulp detaches
and I fall
into crude poetry

vitriolic obscenities
finely crafted
shadows
trying to
become light
                                                 for Andrew K. Peterson

the bats always come back
making music
striking against
my eyelids while I sleep

you say
this is you
getting
to know
me better

that if I were awake
the bats would
strike Tchaikovsky

and that my eyeballs
would leap from
their sockets

wearing my lids
as tutus
and I would
never know the
unconditional self

when I saw it
because I

wouldn't have eyes
to see it
now that we are in love
we take pleasure
in nurturing that love

you lock me
in a freezer
and push me
into the black hole

and then set yourself
on fire and leap
into the black hole

and when we surface
you a litter
of even tinier pumas
and I a hive
of yellow jackets

we gaze at each
other
adoringly

what lovely things
we will beget
now that we are in love
there are many
things we do together

one of our favorite
things is to
unzip our flesh

and trade appearances
for a little while

but for this we
usually use
an egg timer

you say it's all right
you say you'll
remember
when it's time
to be ourselves again

but instead you
spend the afternoon
tearing up the hardwood

in search for more
still-life
other than tea
kettle and a pear

you say that still-life
is a way to exist
for all time
just as you are now
just as you'll always be

you do this while I
lay by the creek
hollowing out
pushing
even
tinier pumas
from your vagina

so many in fact
that as each
one exits

the puma at the south
entrance of the
bridge by the creek

the puma without any legs
head or tail
becomes gradually

more deflated
so deflated
that when I am finished
giving birth to even tinier pumas

the puma without any legs
head or tail
becomes a black hole

one that you are tempted
to leap inside of
to preserve your innocence

to be inserted backwards
into the dreary
complications of every day

playful
mournful
and sometimes sweet

Monday, March 12, 2012

A.

there is an old man
dragging an old door
down the old road
and he stops
in front
of the old farmhouse

he shouts at me
in a language
that sounds
simultaneously
like tin foil
crumbling
and bubble wrap
popping

when I get closer
to the old man
and the old
door by
the old road

I notice that he
isn't so much
an old man

as he is a pair of old overalls
sewn into the old road
and two shoes
blown across the gravel
by a fierce and mighty wind

he tells me that I may
choose to open
the old door and step

into a single manuscript
that has been traveling
from Verona
for some 1400 years

B.

there is a version of me
standing in the upstairs
window with the old
woman with old
white hair and
and old white dress

watching the other version
of me with the old man
by the old door
in the old road

she tells me
that if the other
version of me leaps
through the old door
he will remain only
another clue
fragmentary
and incomplete

and that even though
the other version
of me
is capable
of the most refined
and lovely language

there is much
that is apparent
below the surface

though we may not all
make it out
in the same way

Sunday, March 11, 2012

I fall to my knees
and begin
praying

I do this because
my parents
do this

but when I
do this
I pray until I fall

deeply into sleep
so deep
that I sink

into the hardwood floor
into the earth
below the house

I sink so far down
that I return
to my original position

it is there
I begin
questioning faith

by drawing myself
into a vast
and improbable ocean

and upon swallowing it
in its entirety
I can feel every

secret in the universe
sloshing back and
forth in my stomach

each secret a quiet vessel
desperately hoping to break
a non-breaking wave
there is a giant puma
without any legs
head or tail
sleeping 
at the south entrance
of the bridge 
overlooking the creek

I know it is sleeping
because it expands
and contracts 
its mighty diaphragm
dreaming the calmest dream

I know it is a puma
because there
is a decal of a puma
on its heaving stomach 
lashing out in a way
I could never 
imagine this puma doing

it never bothers anyone
no one ever bothers it

there is a giant puma
without any legs
head or tail
and sometimes 
when I cannot sleep

the decal is pushed 
from the inside out
as if hiding 
a tear in its hide 

and little pumas crawl 
out wearing bonnets
and aprons and 
beards without mustaches

and they begin hoeing 
in the field around
the giant puma

they plant seeds
and ride in tiny carriages

and none of them 
speak louder 
than a whisper 

not even the even
tinier puma 
children

chasing each other
in circles around the giant

puma without any legs
head or tail 
sleeping

at the south entrance
of the bridge by the creek

Friday, March 9, 2012

you say I need to keep
my head on
straight
if you're going to find
the unconditional self

so I spend hours
in front of
the mirror measuring
the exact position necessary
to keep my head straight

but when I step outside
I remember
I have forgotten
about wind resistance

as the wind blows against
my face like every mouth
collectively in the world

my head lifts off
my shoulders
and tumbles
into the creek
like a volleyball
bobbing up and down
bloodying my nose
on passed boulders
slitting my eyelids on twigs

drifting out of range
of my body's reach

it is then I grow weary
and my body slumps
down headless
beside the creek
the sun pouring
against my back

that yellow jackets
begin swarming
my gaping neck
filling my insides
with yellow jackets
overflowing with
yellow jackets
and building
a new face
and head
from yellow jackets

the new language
of my brains
blood
heart and tongue

a hive of my head
where yellow
jackets
using powerful
mandibles capture
and consume all doubt

foraging for food
fornicating
to nourish my
wayward stays

where weathered
and dead
brains
are completely enclosed

except for a small opening
at the bottom
devised for expansion

Thursday, March 8, 2012

when I decide to fall in love
I climb to the roof
of the abandoned farmhouse
and when I’m about jump
I fall through the roof
into the bedroom
where children were raised
where white wallpaper
with rainbows
and hot air
balloons is torn
into the shape
of a cave’s mouth
whose teeth are made
of yellow jackets
that cover my hands
as if I’m drowning
and so I climb into
the broken bassinet
and become helpless
and confused
at the discovery
of fingers and toes

I sleep in the basinet
each night
trying to grow up
throwing fits
and pushing my legs
over and out
of the basinet walls

I cry for my father
and an old man
crawls out
from underneath
the basinet and begins
building fires beneath me

I cry for my mother
and a little girl
leaps out
from the cave’s mouth
blowing heads
off dying dandelions

I cry and I cry
and the old man
and the little girl
burst into sparrows
nesting on my eyelids
until the shells
of my eyeballs cracked

and out climbed love
and out climbed hate

squawking and gagging and spouting
pushing and punching and fucking

exchanging body parts
for dreams of the cave’s
throat closed in digression

with every step taken
further from 
center
your skeleton 

becomes something
that sounds and feels
familiar as falling 
in love
with translucency 


a far off lullaby
in the hands
of a fable

a broken stone
walkway
leading to an 
abandoned farmhouse

a house held together
by the consensual
beating of yellow
jacket’s wings

when one dies
the house tips
floor tricks until
another drone hatches


Monday, March 5, 2012

I imagine myself crawling
through the keyhole
in your pocket
wondering if there
is a key out there in the universe

but then I get lost in the universe
and wonder if I could
replace the cracked
eggshells of my eyes with stars

and make railroad tracks of them
tracks that would see
far off into the distance

where a woman
bound by constellation
half-lore
half-dynamite
reminds me
that if I just hold
my breath
and fill my body
with universe

I will become
the anatomy of being
a comet in the hands
of a million young lovers
a still-life on the wall
of a tea kettle
and a pear


Sunday, March 4, 2012

you tell me to walk 
backward 
and forward 
simultaneously until 
there is no skeleton

when I ask you
what to look for
you say
you say it differently
for all and sundry

for one it is a cinder block
dropped on the head
of a caterpillar

for another it is a paper boat 
docked in the desert
of your cracked palm 


for yet another it is to count
scales on a dragon's back
without it waking

you say you must begin
by locating culture

it is there you
become impossibly
a lullaby, a lullaby


and crawl into my mouth
while I sleep


a wayward ladybug
confusing uvula
for light

whispering into darkness
impossibly, impossibly

someone searching in shadows
for someone found


when I ask you about
the unconditional self

you hold up a keyhole
you’ve been hiding
in your pocket

using your keyhole
you tell me how
narrow I’ve become
how difficult it will be
to maneuver
through such a small frame

then you tell me to close my eyes
and imagine something
impossibly
you say you want to get
to know me better

that you’ve never loved
anyone quite the same

before you tell me you want
to begin while I’m asleep

you call it finding
the unconditional self