march morning

why did i feel that i was not enough

that the moment i woke up there was all this body that has to be done

that i was a worship waiting to be made

that i was a meal meagered by the kitchen window

there were moments i went for walks

that seemed the most sensible thing

to move

to please the body

to make it sound

like a voice unrolling into a river


do not autocorrect me

do not take my voice and clean it up

i want it to be there as it is

spoken with lines in between

fissures

gaps in my teeth and red pink mouth flapping all the gorge and length it can muster


but there is the body again

hoping it won’t turn inside out

with all that it is turning into out

...

there is a lacewing stuck in my window. how often i’ve wanted to feel stuck between two panes of glass so i was not left with too much freedom, left with no sense of direction because there was so much around me. i worry at times that i have left myself behind, that the greatest iteration of myself was some day in the past, or maybe not the greatest but the truest, that i am past my prime, that i am not old or dying but just getting further from my self. though, i wonder, at what point am i an apotheosis to myself, at what point do i hover about the rest of me. 

i have memories this is true, and maybe the only things that are remembered are the truth. i mean that the truth does not include the past, not at all. not the truth only includes the present, not even what is to come because the future is so unpredictable that we could never really guess it right all the time and they are really guesses. but i mean to say that the past is not true at all unless it is remembered, in which case it is there as it is, a memory and only a memory. i don’t mean to say that the past didn’t happen, i just mean that the past doesn’t exist, much like the dead are not alive. i mean to say that the words i am writing remain as they are, as long as they remain, but if i were to erase them, or they were to be lost, then they would cease as words and only remain in my mind and the minds of those who have read this, in which case that is the purest or most existed form of this writing. and when i die, so too will my body have been lost and yet i will remain in the minds of those who have met and seen and held me. and that will be the most that i will be, that will be my truth. and if i am forgotten by time, if i am no longer recorded or remain in any way, they at that point i cease to be true. to cease to exist is to cease being true, and i find it important to remain true for as long as i can, even after my death.  

i often conflate what is real with what is true, but i take a wider sense of what is real: i believe what we imagine is real, because when i shiver at the horror of being frozen to feathers (i mean frozen to death, but my computer autocorrected to feathers and i had to leave it there) i find that imagined idea so real that i am viscerally moved to shiver, and that shiver is real, and if i can remain real by what i write even beyond my life, then i take that as remaining real. 

 

god

let him rot

into being

something

unlike we've ever seen before

like lazarus into living

let him come forth

a woman unmarried

an apple unpolished from the tree

that was grown without a sound

and let also the trees be made

to have a larynx, let us at least modify

a few trees genetically with lungs

and let us hear them speak

 

we fear to create a monster

that only knows suffering

a tree that has no idea

how to use its lungs

a man in space that doesn't end

a space that doesn't echo

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alegorie

i found three allegories in my cupboard last night, 

while i was looking for a midnight snack,

and i ate one, and for a week i had similar dreams.

adam

the euphoria of ondi ahman settled on me like a mixture of mist and sunlight that soothed my blood with effervescent callings. / to present my chest to a gallery of trees showing them that my heart was open to roots. / oh the paradox of purity: touch it and you die, touched and it dies: god. i cannot capture an untouched nature, except through a glancing mirror or glancing in the mirror.

opening prayer

god’s throat, smite me. I 

left my son in the river. I 

came back and he 

is missing in the eddies.

 

I confess I 

regret: my brother’s teeth— I 

shouldn’t have pulled them 

ouy yankingly. my mother’s hair — when 

she said classic, I 

was thinking greek. my wife’s heart — we 

set it out in the sun to

dry. I 

let it crack.

 

o, gullet of god, I 

have seen you roll adam’s apples.

 

I was gesturing ordinances underwater. I 

swam sacred strokes . left . right . left

my son in the river . dive .resurface.left.right.stroke.shore.shake.

 

divine esophogus, you understand hallways, don’t

you. you understand the constrictions and suck of culverts. when

I picked up the bible, I read a verse that said,

verily, verily, thou shalt leave thy son upon the 

brow of an ox, upon the shelf of a river,

and he shall bow at the rising sun, crying abba,

abba, your hand is slipping from mine. 

 

god, when I 

swallow, my ears crack.

holyghost

I am the sound of your mother

biting your father’s ear. after

he smiles, she says, dan,

I sex you. after

he laughs and you, you 

you swoolled at the 

simple over-hertz. youare not used 

to such frequencies, proximities, shakings in 

theair. youhave never felt the sultry

syrup of slippery teeth onyourears, let 

alone the quickened blood 

betweenyourmotherandfather.

youhave never felt the sex 

that made you since the sex 

made you eleven years ago, on 

a broken mattress, turning and turning 

inside the ear, like the holy ghost 

filling your bodywithblood.

some cathedral haiku

bye.altar

    my votive candle

    dimmed . snuffed . extinguished like cain

    wax no longer wicked.

 

corbel:

    angel silhouettes .

    awful.like gargoyles there

    standing in shadow. 

 

sconce:

    candles isolated

    a congregation of warmth

    hardly a fireplace.

 

arcade:

    prayers full of sighs .

    sighs are just gasps in reverse.

    wind walks through the door.

 

altar rails:

    black parishioners

    pray to jesus and mary

    in all their palor

sweater

to     run a mile as a blank sweater,     to

      be for a body stitched cotton noumenon, as though 

every fiber is hesitant sneeze,

     to     phenomenon—     breathing in fog, 

 

      minding heat inside skin

inside me inside minding inside 

skin outside—      to

      stripped and flung into a 

 

ditch-watered forest,

      to      lame by heavy

rain,     leafed with 

gutter slugs, splattered with

 

gravel—interfiber 

gritted: mattered to matter:

as though everything 

were      sweater.

directions to the garden of eden

excavate your gravesite by hand

with a pale friend named eve at dawn

in a garden, forest, mountain edge,

without any clothing in sight.

secure oxygen mask, catheter,

and needle for nutrients through your shoulder.

you don’t need a doctor, just a friend or some savior

to monitor your vitals, pale fluids and airway.

chest to knees, buttocks to heels

feet to soil—rooted in the hole,

eve buries you handful of clod by clod.

enjoy the sensation of soil on your teeth,

the thump of lumps of clay and silt against your back,

the freedom of silence, and learn that innocence

is the color of soil, that sterility is better

underground, that you will never feel the sunset

or the crying of a child, that you are alive,

alone, and completely surrounded by god.

one thich, to thich

i must be, at the very least, successful. at the very least, an empty glass of milk, the leftover wade in a river, a small untied knot, a brother left right at home, a grimace ungrimmed.

 

must be

left behind for others to talk about and find, the hummingbird the about, and find the note that says “I was always this serious,” about and find his posture cracked by the wind, about and find the the glass spread in a perfect arc, the body that left itself in the snow, no snow-angel or struggle at all.

 

must be a mysterious gift, an unopened fox, a doorbell ditch, an unseen grass blade’s meow in the night light, the woman who starved to death in front of a feast with a note addressed “dear children …”

 

must be a sacrifice, so beautiful the giver is among the missers. the tasted never gets a taste, that is taste-chaste, as he said “give these people freedom or I will hand myself to the ocean and let the ocean determine my fate.” 

 

must be risky, one shot, shoot straight, read by a man who hadn’t cared about beauty until now.

 

must be everything needs to fall into place, even yourself; you won’t have much control after a certain point of no return. 

 

must be a suicide and not a murder:

s - “don’t fuck with me.”

m - “I can’t.”

s - “don’t even try to then.”

m - “look. it’s not rape if we are both sterile.”

 

must be discovered immediately or eventually, since the more time passes, the more we feel the weight of the uncovering, the moon to say the least.  

 

must be a wanting to tell that is never told, a present that never futures, a plum we didn’t eat.

 

must be intentional, like the man who initiated his career as an accountant with a note that said “this is my suicide” and then, slowly, he let the numbers kill him over the period of just short of a lifetime. 

 

must be consistent such as one puzzle with three missing pieces and a memory of the box, not three puzzles mixed together with no memory.

 

must hint at hope. like a tiny ember that only breathes in your periphery, like a glint of a passing car, like the annulled marriage, like blindly feeling the face of an abstract idea.

 

must jump from the bridge for the both of them, will jump at his own and others request, will make it beautiful for himself and others, will leave the tragedy as a monument, will hope for a monument as small a one bolt from that bridge with his name on its head, will hope, as he falls, they won’t find his head in the river.