Poetry
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If a body is a pocket of possibilities thenmine is full of change. These past few weeks, I have rediscovered discovery. redrawn all the lines. O Joy –my days are a loopthat begin and end with saying your name.My days are polaroid photos dangling light from twine-vined walls.There are too many thingsI want to send
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There is no bastion left for me in this uncharted territory. The birds have stopped tweetingtheir daily prayer, and images undownload themselves into the aether. What I wanted was some peace to act like I never knew anything but. Every path forward is a path intothe waiting jaws of a sleeping beardreaming about an emotion
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The world is the shiny bald head of an infant,an egg waiting to be cracked over a pan. I imagine if the Earth would be dropped from a great, great height it’d burst likea water balloon at that child’s first birthday partywhere they first learn the limits of their lungs and limbs.We are constantly walking
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like a vine it growsover the living room walls we’re seated there in the palm of some unseeing god the fingers, tenseand ready to closein with all the gentle rage of a mother it has been seven days sinceI last saw the sun I know it has been seven days because I have been counting
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Let’s say we see the world in frames,let’s say everything is visual. Imagine this – a field of birds, spilling into sky; the solitary path of a pigeon touched as gently as a shotgun can. Picture a bird gingerly leaving its nest, satinside the open mouth of a cadaver. That’s how the world will reinvent
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Drawing out a line, extending from the forearm of a man you’ve lovedto forget, you are heading down yetanother backalley into a town with no name but yours. Your name on the streets, like a flock of birds, a mob of hungry hungry cars, running to death on fumes and long-fought wars. At times, you
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Like a fisherman on the shore,pulling out the deep sea like a brush stroke, a long drag from someone else’s cigarette, and the pitter-patter of ink blots on a worm-eaten pier. I am self-diagnosing problems in the name of poetry. If poetry is, as old men put, the best words in the best order, doesorder
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An empty socket where wisdom should be, the aftertaste of blood coursing through the mouth. I don’t miss solidity, I miss concrete.I don’t miss foundations, I miss building.I don’t miss you, I miss all of you. My back is wound up like suspended in motion. So much kineticism waiting to be unleashed, like an overfull
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highway palette plank on plankto a distant star think of yellowdirt-runed dunes of carrot cakesand flowing in infinite hour-glasses off the side of a lonely planet some other side of thislonely galaxy what is the colourof your gratitude can you explainthe middle ground between greenand not-green and who knows what there is to do at
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In every throat, an apple to be pared. The knives of our tongues are stillnot enough for this actof love making. Before the work is done, the sculpture is already waiting to be sold. As with the bark of treeswe mark that we lovewith something that can’t grow back. Everyroom is a cage of sky
ugly stage 