seven poems

wire

whether or not there are positions to be taken
it all depends on your first rendition
and your relation to the foxhole

you totter like a hammer,
and you are wedged between two earths
i've known about your broken fingers,
and i've seen the end of the fierce rabbits

blood is thicker than wire,
when wires are plugged into the heart
it's from the inside that we see what's going on
what's truly taking shape in the space before us
it's only a matter of time before we face the fire
back to front we're in the truck,
a blind man follows his dumb luck.


chill

morning,
frost on petals,
the blue glow of the sun
behind houses


complicated

calling fire down from the heavens,
molten lava, my life
odd happenings are heavy, silent
the birth of the windows,
the shattering of glass,
knots tied in wood and hair.


weed

when we were walking through the meadow
and the weeds were thicker
than a tangle of fat nerves and green rope
my feet didn't want to move,
they wanted to grow roots and hold me to the earth
like a weed that has broken free,
a dandelion seed that has been taken by the wind
looking for the right soil to lie down in and crack open its heart
to spill through the earth and rise up from the ground.


spores

the moon blows down through ancient lips,
the frosty breath from the white ball in space
mushrooms know the moon is their mother
and try to reach her, but can't
they shower spores like tears.


industrial revolution

this has to work,
it's the details that get in the way of a good breakfast
fine songs let loose like feathers in boats, engulfed in flames
like a hard-strung planet
aeroplanes float in the sky like eyebrows rising in surprise
when the road is harder and hotter than your will
there is no reasonable way to throw your mind on the table

wires are hot, wires are strung, ropes and meat are hung in the sun
green fields turn gold, under grey skies they burn
if ever the bleeding rooms open up during the frame
i'm on board for realizing the long crates
the open spaces that are held in batteries

these are the hollowest balls in the station
but i can't seem to draw upon my thin hairs for support
there are open dreams, there are slicing fears,
there are ways to remove the glaciers,
ice, hard as steel, cracking like rocks
straight to the devil's feet,
nailed to the floor with five pound hammers
in a cycle of smoke, repositioned and refined.


some things that i found

blue dusters were sailing in the air that was thick with constant wailing
chimney stacks lined with paper and horse harnesses leaning precariously to one side
all at once the sea was quiet, you could hear the drop of a tooth
branches that are no longer branches hustled for leaves
a newborn baby had gathered them all like matches in a matchbook
paper airplanes folded by kingpins, and brought to the queen by snarling dogs

(the most obvious daggers are never the ones you should worry about
it's the tiny ones made of coal that slide under your skin that pose the gravest threat)

just when you think the elements have come together in a unique way
the breastplate of righteousness is split in two by a swinging ball
five time five is twenty-five, the number you need to stay alive
the cold metal under your feet and against the back of your knees
that's what it takes to succeed in the land of make-believe

these are some things that i found
down an alleyway and on the ground
it wasn't pretty, it was all blood and graffiti
I found loaves of bread, and Francis Bacon's head.