i called your ugly house from my ugly house.
the mouth pine-stuck, water in the belly, a singing
giant. this point of darkness keeling below
the deck. heave ho the ugly shore rings, bare
necked/spined/handed.
a small thing to the hungry, that we love.

oh, stillness. oh, heart. with your little paths that lead you back. yawning as tender. tired as a slap to the lip, a bruised cheek ( Read more... )

& as he watched her move over him in the slow ooze of sunlight, he loved her. he loved her because she was full of sun & soft stone; he was overcome with the beauty of her wind. she held him in her, pausing his breaths; she pushed him from side to side, as if she was surprised at how easily he moved, & when he saw this, he tried to kiss her, ( Read more... )

our greatest fear is that we will, having loved so much & all at once, never be able to love again. that, having held such passion, our hearts would become weak, & the hefty explosion would dim, the harshness of its bowels softened ( Read more... )

in the heat, the hyacinths on the porch let go their scents like millions of small, unharvested hatreds. those soft for the picking, rationalized hatreds, like the tender gods of questions with out answers, who have names like maldorf (god of, why doesn't he love me any more), or jahrd (god of, what do i have left to live for).

     but finally i don't have to understand that. understand that they are falling leaves, these men. these men with eyes of brackish water, the wake of whom is unstoppable, is eager to bore its way in to me, is reverberatting, is never going to go completely away. & then he calls. & he says, are you there, so many times he fills the wires with ( Read more... )

     the mirrors ugly with numbers run silver, bend the light that comes in from the open windows, that old friend affixed with age like a pitted plum. i hold the red fish in my hand & offer it to the sun. i open my bones in search of prayer, & find this, this arch of my tongue, the star of swallowed space ( Read more... )

the house is angry. the house is soft & hollow, from every stance, from every entrance, from with in the corridors, from the windows. the house is empty except for the breathing of the walls, the opening & closing wind of the beams. there's a sound, too, but it's tender, uneven, like the sound of the gathering of cloth coming from an other room ( Read more... )

my legs miss you in the walking. my sternum becomes sick for your lips. my hands, upon waking, do not find you & grow limp as steam. i find salt in the seams, in the knuckle lines gaping. my bed can no longer hold me, i startle my self with the edges of it every night. & my belly, my belly a grave, the story of death, a writhing tunnel of ( Read more... )