Confession of an Egoist

I was born pale
and fading like an old bulb.
I want to die this way,
colorless, with a constant
becoming of the air
around, just to dissolve
like a cube of sweet cane
gone, gone,
from the life as
a bird of paradise
spread like a Japanese fan.
Eyes all over me.

In the rarity of being unaware,
fleetingly negligent of
the backs of my hands,
lark hands, the same
lark skin as my neck-
I remember
in the womb I choked myself
into lending some flesh.
If I could just lay on top of you
we might stop breathing
long enough to love the air,
the colorless and constant
becoming of the air,
becoming of everything, all matter,
becoming of the reality bearing
of the becoming of my reverie.

What would you give to become the wind?
Cold with me, strong with me
across continents like a
continental lust for the surface
ennerving the tops of trees,
swinging in hard limbs,
morphing into water
and running down cliffs.
At times I look up and realize
the clouds are still moving.
In theory,
we could hide in these clouds;
but you, like those before,
will fade in the zenith of people
with their pallid operettas
and bastard eyes.
You were born alive and well,
alive and well.

OK,
I will give you the confession of an egoist:
I want to die alone.

Mother, tell me when you want your box back

Women
deny all sides of the box,
so it is the circle.

Jacob's Aurochs Full Length

Can you feel me in your spine?
The lonely ghosts climbing, comely,
Up, up
Jacob's ladder.
They breathe wind into your ears.
Soft wind in the tunnels that will retire
like maraschino on the tongue.
for you, I'll keep it whole.
My teeth will render secrets
like captive ribs protecting the heart.

Before we tasted, we felt in our spines
like Aurochs with their pastey wings
sweating in the sun.
Up, up,
the secrets they kept had a Florentine concupiscence.
For there is no animality to an angel.
They dance in spirit form.
They think in burning loins,
burning bushes, burning candles
with wax like slow skin.
Freaking out until it's whole.
They are blind angels, bending lights,
awkward angels one by one.
They are the Aurora!
The Roman dawn, the everyman dawn.
Old drunken stratagems that break their clam shells
They die again, again.
They never die, they close their eyes.

I have a secret:
You will not believe the Heaven of your mind.

Ange Gauche

All of the soft moths
die stiff in the jar.

Under the Pillow Again

In the presence of pain,
I see young faces
and watch them grow old.

Sleep is a Rose, the Persians say

I want to sleep in this grass
With my own arms wrapped
Like plants that have learned
To try in the dark.
This I can do with conviction
Like a caravan of ivory birds
Circling blackened poles
Constantly, constantly.

Autumn is summer
When you lay this still
Or when you love nothing.
It is disgusting how indecision
Cradles its babies into
The great mercy.
The world is hot and afraid.

Where is the bundled up ceremony
Of wandering bodies like nomads
Stoic and breaking in sweaters
And fat warm mugs?

Where is the blood trail?
I want to see my veins.
Where is the one with the body
Like a blade of grass?
I want to sleep in this grass.

I'm telling you.
Know that of which you do not dream.
Give up.

Together, the Caddish Limbs

Hands are not of the spirit.
They will betray you in real form.
When you are faced with the Freedom of falling,
they will clench to the vast cliff side.

Entre nous soit dit...

I.
All of the distant shapes
in photographs
are so raw and unserious
like raw meat or
meteors and hard things
floating through the galaxy.
The lines lead to openings
to black holes
and to primary places.
It pulls me upstairs.
do you hear the whispering?
It whispers back to me.

II.
I want to cup my hands around your ankles
Don't you understand?
I see your clothing in pieces.
Each piece a part of you,
each, apart from you
just nothing but singular.
God, I want to do your laundry
Fold you, dress you
Make my gaze sharp enough to hurt you.
Come to me with all your years of misery
I will offend you.
I know not of these things
but I want you to be infantile
from rebirth...
I know nothing.

III.
You will walk again,
you will write again with wicked fingers,
you will stay awake when you're tired
and you will sleep nervously
to the sound of new lungs waking
like good days.
Look at my objects
the tips of my hair are pre-historic
what, 5 years.
Fallen fossils
What, like my inner side
blazing.

Jacob's Aurochs Sweating in the Sun

Before we tasted, we felt in our spines.