1. |
Submission
01:34
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|
mercy, dear lord!
grant me a salvation,
whatever guise you give it.
i will prostrate myself before you.
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2. |
||||
|
It felt red to be inside of the oven. I sift into separate parts... I am constituent as I am whole, bones as much as language, sown, as fathers tend, further than I can find, the limbs never sitting quite so well with me: and what of these joints? Hold me as the sauce that I once was, ovum beseeches seed.
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3. |
Wetted Ashes
02:19
|
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|
I find a broken window and wonder what it means.
I hear a tree bending and wish for it to snap.
There’s no wind in an abuse chair.
Tall beautiful one, if you finally fall to the barbarian mad cutter
he would not want your wood.
I will take up your splinters
but I cannot make you into something to sit on.
Burnt, your ashes help so much to grow,
and I can see the spirits climbing upward out of that dancing.
I, offspring, am sticky keys, sap stained; holding too long down
is what it takes to make a poet.
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4. |
Runoff
02:15
|
|||
|
Enough painted to see eyes?
Something tells me: sketched,
and all the time been filling in the pencil marks with your own colors,
so that if I were to be gone it would be a matter of picking the right shades
to fill in the newly made blank.
I wish that when you’d get out of the tub wouldn’t drain,
I lay while water cools,
runoff.
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5. |
Ode
01:45
|
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|
To all those things fail to devote
an upturned chin from the floor-mouth
whose ass eclipses, whose dustpan is not.
Let me clean off your stone and rest my cheek on it
a pane of glass and beneath the exterior is a laughing fat Buddha.
|
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6. |
In robes
02:36
|
|||
|
cancerous union
idolaters’ embrace
the sky in shades of flesh:
that it would have a corpse wasn’t concern standing.
singing forenoon livingroom is a thing to be swallowed:
i nap with the morbid in morgue, lacking stable axis.
who is this spinning drunken pilot?
wants me to kneel.
used to make me holy to never sleep.
|
||||
7. |
||||
|
Moving a little too quickly
by the subway door.
Passenger shade,
muted with the rest of the pavement,
and love and knocking elbows:
the platform is clear,
not sure what’s left after they’ve had their fill of it.
Every world is inner-head
therefore blood and air.
Circulatory map of trains.
|
||||
8. |
Spirit
01:57
|
|||
|
a spot of red
on a largely blank canvas.
i can't stop staring.
|
||||
9. |
Mote-palpitant
02:46
|
|||
10. |
Sophia and the Snake
01:34
|
|||
|
O sophia, couldn’t keep away the snake,
and I can’t resist the dick joke, low hanging
how easy it is to choke with a full mouth,
but it’s not funny when your hands are sticky
and you have to cover your private parts.
So who is chasing you now that your house is blooming
and you can’t keep your nose out of blossoms.
|
||||
11. |
Moorish eyes
01:57
|
|||
|
There's something climbing over the seawall,
I think it's a moon. I will sing songs of your (muttered) love,
when I learn to speak.
|
||||
12. |
Molly
01:25
|
|||
|
No fun to talk circles
and you have a shapely mouth.
Here are the structures,
they are silt, they are clay,
and when I asked, there was no evidence
that the honey bearers with their stings had not left.
|
||||
13. |
Run
03:19
|
|||
|
New spring,
open window.
Birdsong morning,
I unmoving in bed.
Voices visit me halfasleep,
Sacred cacophony.
astroturf sunrise (god punctuation)
morning run clear, no thought, ignoble
boys shouting practicing ball, a game;
when i practice i keep my mouth shut
|
||||
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