never the night and I to touch
10/27/2008 07:51 a.m.


never the night and I to touch at the edge of each of us an electricity untying bounded wrists
to blind blooms of headstrong scent; never the night and I to taste at the tuber
an inquisitive and unsparing taste what does it mean if you don’t know that time has won
it’s Monday turning into Monday’s tongue that’s all



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venus
10/23/2008 07:34 a.m.


Venus lets down her hair
stares at me with eyes innocent as coffee stains
prints her initials where the sun don’t shine
the church smell on her breath – red doors ajar
and the rain breaks inside
so devoted to her subject be it the eighteenth of October
or annihilation



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i
10/03/2008 10:56 p.m.

i would write to you of the clouds that hang over the roofs like palms, of the wind at my elbow and the little bird poised on the spike, i would write to you of the color green, if you are a dreamwalker as you claim to be i would write to you from mine

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fleeting of sense
10/01/2008 07:57 a.m.



i wanted to dispose of this vastness
little by little
swift and chaotic i hurtled across the yoga mat & your arms broke the fall

too heavy for your nest of words
when do i learn the secret
of your coquetry?

that black pearl undertow to the sky
makes me think of you, your surfaces,
the many letters we never even began
to illuminate






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s o
09/24/2008 11:06 a.m.

i wait remember you warm -
the bus collects
my money
deriving that
journey we never took
each night
dreamwalking home-
wards you pull a scarf
across my face
and time draws up
from the edge of the pool
lights the fires
in the corners
to stop the sun
from going out


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co-science
08/29/2008 02:13 a.m.


i'd hoped for you to read demon haunted world but realised what's the point, you are entirely secular anyway and believe in nothing. would you convert for me? i believe in nothing too but am not entirely secular my spirit is just my shadow, i do not lose faith for i do not have it. when you have not laughed for days it is strange to. isn't this contradictory carl sagan was an atheist or agnostic yet i find a spiritual impetus to his science but i might radically misunderstand spirit, yet spirit is the "life essence into material" part anyway isn't it and soul is the divine part so maybe i'm deifying the spirit because i have no soul or i am confusing the spirit and soul or maybe i radically misunderstand the soul

why have you brought me to this strange temple, barren fires and dusty altar? why place my thirsty hands on your shoulder blades - is it to remind me they were wings? only the moon prays here on a wet night cradling the ruins the living haunt the streets and the dead just sleep

why have you brought me here and not made me kneel or wash or sacrifice or lent me a scripture. i've seen this place filled with sea, tears, children ran across it before that and animals grazed, and now i must step here, is it for the sake of justice or destiny that i am brought here, led on a blind leash and brought to an urn containing my own ashes




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*
08/26/2008 12:54 a.m.
fifth essence the scleromorphs laze before the view hits "infinite" and un buries gently in persephone's skull the book of unexhumed mystery no one can buy the pages are filled before writing to the point of blackness wild stirring up patterns with fingers alone reckless pursuit of nutrients aside this is the cluster of a thousand years drawn together to face the thousands before with spears for hands an army of nephelim (neanderthals) speaking in tongues of the plains genetically divine packets of communication (much like manna from heaven) or a treatise scratched into rocks (becoming soil into which ploughs can be sunk) in tra venous quint sans the motion of the earth and the many phase flow coils dipping past the shoppers and fruit sellers 1 2 3 4 i've probably done enough

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thawwold
08/17/2008 06:37 a.m.




in another langage may we be happy to survivehard
fragile conditions here; frozen to the trees those of us
weary of thaw

in another pair of words mercurial shuffling & shutter-
eyed loverlees, brownleafcoats - "you r still making too much sense, button-up"
a nonny mouse, lee softlywordless a white cat padding up the frangipangi moon

neighm c





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practising
08/14/2008 05:33 a.m.


The atmosphere in waiting
for Persephone’s steps; called from the shadows
by her mother’s rays (not really staying as
she sleeps aside the tulips dragon-toothed). Earth
kicks inside the biosphere, squirms atop Her hands:
warring daughter nascent and antique.

The unassuming bark and moss have left this young antique
that had so many years been waiting
to return its fallen fruit and leaves to the one who hands
and restores life in reaching, cooling shadows.
The bark and moss have long been ground into the prayers of Earth,
refining much which cannot be re-found while

you may or may not go, may or may not stay a while;
the windowless land is a structure more antique
than any more recent monument, ornamenting the princess Earth
tousled, spoiled and cruel from year-long waiting
who can blame her then for fetching shadows
so all the oceans darken beneath her hands?

She has sinned and so has lost her hands.
Barely flinching while
her wrists were bound and logged; she wore the crown of shadows
as if it were the gift of Hades’ forge antique
and not the premature seed of dark greed waiting
an admixture purged by the Earth.

Persephone falling once more leaves the Earth,
the sun’s special child with darkness in her hands
must teach herself for now her mother is waiting
for her daughter’s twin to rise for a while
since they may never meet else break the antique
lore, pushed and pulled from and to the shadows.

Why this, why place your faith in shadows
and not the things taught by the Earth?
(what we have called for long antique
a thing she scatters to the desert’s hands
countless times, evenly, while
people forget they are just waiting.)

Shadows in which leopards are waiting
soften now the Earth yet while
hands meet in an antique purpose.



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Even the earth, sometimes the sea
08/06/2008 06:42 a.m.


In time with the sea's wild blue voice, waves accuse the barriers. Double-chinned clouds lean over like distant, short-sighted neighbors. Light drowns onthe surface in shattered, alarming, regal globules; a snorkler patterns himself on a mole, tunnelling to Cabbage Tree Bay. A man vanishes off the point - another from the bench below mine, with his book. Their clothes are black as rocks, their light thoughts obscured. I write as though I can (escape) but the snorkler's strokes bore past again. Studying the small tree under which I am seated (the top of my head almost touching the lowest leaves), how its shadow has left a palm reading, over which it peers.

I want to lie about these things even more than I want to tell the truth. What does this make me?


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