Everyone loves a redemption story.  Or, a fall from grace.

People want light to be drawn from mud.

They want to know that in our murky natures, something holy, something close to god can be wrest from us, from the flesh webbing and bone caging of our little beating organs.

We want to know that if we are black, if we are decaying things, then that we can transmute, defy ourselves, become something beyond the coal destined things we are now.
We want to know that in our desire for what we cannot name, that we still have souls. We want to know that we are not merely evolved, intricate, dirt molds that live transient lies, then die.

Well, we are dust. 
Then, water.

We are the things that've crumbled away from stars, the minuscule fragments that cease to be light.

One day, we will be a caked, dead mass, and the dying glow orb will swallow us, dry spittle of itself. 
Then, we will again become thoughtless and lifeless, become the gleaming movement that we all once were.
 
Until then though, we are only the things that lay in wait.


-
 
"What does the evening star taste like?"

"Like all other stars; a burning wind that hungers for a dark hollow to bury itself."

it eats at me, you know. it's the way i push the glass away,
but it sits by my bed.
i don't want to drink anymore
of bitter love,
nor of sickly sweet poison.

well, flight or shatter

it starts, a bric -
a - brac, a tumbling, - i don't know this
road - or maybe i traveled blind before
and stupored,
or in the soft mulch-covered woods
on moonless nights.

well, these things crumble, you know.
not made of stone,
our feet crack easier;
but what things we contain,
wisps and wists, i want
more than to love
like a ghost, a dead girl, drifter
in my aged, worn shoes

when you flood,
sky shine on summer grass,
like glowing wildflowers trailing the sun's fingers,
and i am moved how the wind must,
in nectared breaths and petals

the heart in flight

Love love love, lovely, c'e la vi',
(non e francese: "c'est la vie").

Madam, I am scrawling, yes,
with charcoal.
These wires become all aglow.
Caged in Bangkok lanterns;
I am as naked and dark as sparrows.
 

some birds eat other birds, or story for the lost artist

A cliff falcon swept her broad wings, and
thefted a newborn chicken-child singing 
pio, pio, pio to a little boy.

Well, throw a rounded stone swiftly,
enough to strike
the hunter. She will
drop the yellow feathered thing.
It will plunge thirty feet, 
lay dead on the grass, dirtied
and damp on the ground,
for the little boy to dash over
in his small feet,
and be afraid to touch it.

You must
pick it up, the little dead body,
and carry it in the cracked cradle
of your labored hands,
and lay it,
in a grounding-stone grave.

You must take the old bronze bowl,
the one where grandmother's young fingers
picked her blessed rice from,
when the young farm chickens chirped for her,
and place
the hollowed metal,
on the silent body of the creature.

Take a tarnished spice spoon, heavy
with the rains and cold,
and strike, the empty eating sphere.
It will ring, a knelling clarity,
& sound, into the dozing mountains,
and the cool, grey haze that cloaks them.

You must hit it again,
& again, and then, again, drumming
faster, your fingers,
become chanting monks
of a dead dharmic religion,
a steady, chiming, prayer-voice
soaring up to the blind burying gods,
and the bird will stir.

no. love, you are porcelain
fragments; pushpins spilt.

these things puncture underfoot. blue.
threads in softness; lines going
across me, you were so tender,
little sinking bites.

ceramic shards,
how my feet bloom
wet, along your mouth
red peonies and claret,
oxidized kisses on a pane.

i would scatter you:
silver tacks and iron pins;
how you dizzy on my splintered floors, how
fearfully sweet my heart races and aches
the way i pierce you into my flesh.

Fraying

There is a way the shirt unravels,
a little stray thread,
that you tuck,
into the fine, sturdy body of the hem,
with a promise,
to snip at a later time.

And forgotten,
between the entwined legs in the mid-mornings,
and soft cradling hands
that cup
cheeks and chins and bright eyes,
left tumbling like dizzy lovers
in the post-coital wash, the machine
catches it.

What a tender tug.
At first, a spinning,
a back and forth unstitching,
then, oh.
The strap has fallen,
the shirt has split,
and all the pieces fall, wet and tearing.

make lemon meringue.

or the breath suppressed, fall
against the silver rounded tins;
caressed in papers, discarded,

breathe.
dizzying citrine; clementines.
nothing quite

like pomelo, crushed
tears in mouth,
all tart
and wounding.

______________________________


When life gives you lemons, you make lemon meringue.

Or you could roll the lemon on a thick wooden cutting board and slice it; pour a shot of sunny, reposado tequila, and break the salt and bitter lime tradition. Or, you could let the lemons sit in the plastic bag in the fridge until you knew what to do with them. They’d smell only of sweet, fresh lemons as they fermented, sweaty with chill and condensation on their bumpy zest. Lemons forgotten, you could go the grocer’s. You could let your stiff back fall lightly against the shelves of silver rounded tins, all caressed with papers, as you inhaled, your legs unsteady in the heady citrine breaths of clementines and tangelos.

Then you buy the fruit, peel the loose skin, tenderly, and eat the sweet flesh.

When life gives you a lover, after things break with your last one, you should make love.

i walked
in black abyss,
dark & blind,

found stars,
radiant salt,
& white.

They say grace now; promise fire in the future,
and warmth and brightness always.

interlude

what is the taste of love?
-beers drowned in amaretto, liquid almonds with a little poison, steeped from the stone hearts of summer, love does not taste like you.
-orgasms, love does not taste like you.
-james joyce, oh poldy, poldy bloom, your molly who is going to leave you, yes, yes, oh yes, and i yes, yes your stream of conscious sweetness while you sleep, love, love does not taste like you, nor your old nostalgia pages.

am i blue? billie asks me. blue billie, i'm not like you. i don't cry, and no man's left me. the world is old and filled with lies, and i can lie too. it was a woman who killed lucifer.

-

there was a fire in chinatown, and it left a blackened stone-brick skeleton, all concrete and charred, and i fell in love with its burnt hollowness. is it bizarre to feel this, to love decrepit, aging buildings? the attraction's all in the expression, the honest ugliness.
they can't lie, so they stand in the rain, waiting to be demolished.

there's an art to lying; it is the craft of story-weaving and selling desire. you take a set of images, linked only by the person who commits them, and tie them together to make a narrative that people want to buy, like a bundle of frail papers with secrets, or withering blossoms.

i don't want to be eloquent. i don't want art. i don't want jacquard floors. i don't want to know that we are only chemicals and fiction.
i don't want to make love letters to ugly, miserable, disgusting (beautiful!) despair, who digs into me with her hooked ring, and her androgynous twin, desire, who possesses the space where my metaphysical heart should be, and breathes through my pores, and lives alone in his/her mirrored chambers.

perhaps i am poetry. i don't think poetry can live in a body like mine, or maybe that's why it does. or perhaps the world is too heavy sometimes, with it's grey nights, and overflowing fog, smog in the city. or perhaps i don't love people, only ideas, because people can't appreciate the world. or maybe i was born strange in the head, and now i love walls and dirt, and blackness, and mourning, and see truths too clearly to want to play cat's cradle and repeat cycles with liars; they are all liars.

or maybe i don't know the heart of what's real when it looks back at me.

i.
The songstress opens her mouth. She is petite, a china doll.
Her mouth, song is Shanghai, 1920.
 
I close a semi-gloved left hand to my heart.
Shanghai, Shanghai; Mandarin, I do not speak, but know the soul of.

She opens her eyes while lilting.  Makes dark-lashed woman lids at me, not at the lonely drunks near me, nor at anyone else in the loud jazz house.
My windows are open; I know her heartbeat. She closes her painted eyes, sways to her own young voice and the piano.
She raises her eyes elsewhere in the room, at other men at various tables. The back of their heads gaze back. Her fingers clutch and twist a strip of fraying microphone cable tightly. She sways her hips when she remembers to.
Her vowels and tonals are off at times, but nobody else knows the ebbing and flowing of Chinese in the room, only the exoticism of her voice.

If I were single, I would rise from where I am eating up her vulnerability. I'd leave my scotch on the oaken steps. I would saunter over, tell her, "I love your singing. Let me buy you a drink." She is twenty-four, and I am twenty-one; this is no matter. A girl is a girl.

berryman, you've never been much of a mentor, the way your words collide, a fisher's net of emotion.
your mouthfuls, are abstract, heavy socks, cotton in mouth.  it is like the way i lack fluidity, a disjoint here, a disjoint, disjointed, dreams, half awakenings.
i know your heart, or rather, the way the masking fluid, the weight cloth that puts out fires,
pins you by its corners, bubble of wet air underneath
a pink shower cloth.
there is a hungriness on the belly of a bathing baby,
i wish i could explain.

-

i know you.
there is a girl who is late for the experiment, so the science will go on without her, and i'm afraid that there is nothing left,
but chalkboards, nostalgic green things with slow dust, wooden desks.
sometimes i can't remember if i am again manufacturing my childhood
for more sunlit country days,
prim and proper teachers.
the classrooms are always empty so you'd never know
if electricity ever existed
and ruined our drifting days.

there is a song i've been meaning to sing,
but i want badly,
to touch the concrete, the gravelly unevenness
of courtyards, as if in the painful patterning, the afternoon
would stay with me,
imprint the steady gathered warmth,
so i'd remember what it was like, to hold summer on my skin

How Pretty Girls Dry Their Long Hair

...not like other girls, with shorter hair; I’ve seen.
They sand their dripping strands
between towel.
They let their heads fall back,
pulled down by the damp silk,
the lovely whispers that will o’ wisp
nightingales and fireflies to their billowy spines.
They let their chins drop to clavicle, grievers,
before they raise their coffin’d lashes
to the lone bulb in the ceiling,
slow breathing beneath the sweet suffocating veil.
And then, they apple,
one ear cradled in the wind of their hair,
stars shaken in glass jars in a dark room.

the abstraction:

oh river, river, the highway song
hums twilight lid
over the bright eyes of the zephyrs.

the carbon cells against my wrist
burn lemon, tap wet
fingers, flickering lamp switches and buttons

the way the awakening waves
stream through the sealed panes and the walls,
leaves me crawling back to some blackness.


a translation:

river, i smell your dawn,
between the fluid melody
of cars streaming, fish on the highway

my wrist has carpal tunnel
from love vibrations and voltage leak
of electric cells caught between stiff fingers.

the way the dreaded cockcrow arrives,
the first dark blue, the moon growing old,
leaves me crawling beneath my bedding.


the poem:

river, river, i smell your dawn,
the sea starved song,
the singing of the streamlined
fish on the highway.

it silences
the motors
tunneled against my wrist,
it runs dry
the masochism,
numbs the voltage buzz in my fingers.

in the dark,
the moon grows old.
night stumbles away again,
never lullaby nor lover.

Some nights, as the starry clouded hours lay with me,
I think of those who lay their aging bodies,
unshowered and uncradled,
into the empty pocket of their machine-worn sheets,
and then of myself, spray cleansed
and coiled like electric cooling in the flat folds of my quilt
to keep my bathed body from the damp of the dew,
that soaked my linens closer to midnight.

There is a wandering in my flesh,
that keeps me from silence,
the pieced pastorals of my mind.
My organs are hungering
for hairy arms and a bed
in Brooklyn. I call my lover, apologize.
He instructs: turn off the lights, lie down, close your eyes.
 
I say: goodnight. He says: goodnight.
And as he falls 
to heavy, luscious breathing,
the static on the phone becomes steady rainwater,
glistening orange and city as it drops,
sounding steps, high and ringing in wash colored pavement.
Heavy inhales, exhales,
June rain on my thirsting skin.

misanthropy

Your sunned hair dangles,
O child of Pierus, against the drooping
of unmade sable sheets, like stained ribbons,
or the chafing sugar hem of perchance or rubs,
which grazes as it billows,
like stillborn grass beneath the bent, branching wind,
of January on the wintered skin
and a sleeping spine.

In the ill ebbing of veins,
hollowed intestines, & the silk-ridged flesh,
the waxpaper'd soul knows the taste
of salt and leaf-breath, and glossy insects,
Only in the warm gleam of hardened tree blood,
flourishing sweetness turned into a buried memory stone;
O Mnemosyne, your refractive scent, your mouth eludes
our self-regenerating, self-devouring cells.


There are girls, and boys,
who bathe & soap themselves: 
god-destroyers and gods,
masturbation-blessed, metal-wrapped iconoclasts,
with their halo-molassed lips, their seastorm eyes.
 
My stillness hides my pulsing to the loveliness,
to the breaths that go shallow-quick,
I dissolve against their blood-rosy cheeks, the satin jawbones,
but tracing the corded pathways 
of their opuses, movements,

O muses,
there are only bird shadows,
jackdaws and magpies in grey rain.