On Recursive ThoughtsThis curve of bone no more than
a whitened hive. Inside,
legs, jointed. How these feet catch
and scratch and cling,
a claw in each synapse,
a voice for each and every touch.
A why and why again.
A gauze of wings, held up,
a gauze before my eyes, a misted world,
those stick-dry veins blurred and close.
Somewhere the scent of venom,
the sharpness caught behind my skull.
Each needle-sting a thought and thought again,
a layering up, another string of words,
another cascade of loosened thoughts, a buzz
of voices with their tired whys.
One day I may open this hive-mouth
and watch the exodus go by. On Recursive Thoughtsin Writing
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Something of BreathingWho cares
about your arms,
elbows and knees,
cartilage screaming, worn
down to ghost slivers, lodging
there in your joints? Even
this silence has a hiss to it.
Even the air presses down, soft,
a pillow on your mouth.
Asphyxiation happens slowly,
breath by breath, when you
are alone. Who cares? This
is not about connection.
You are not elastic. You will
take in each swallow of air,
day by day. You will move,
spider-limbed, exoskeleton imagined
in bands. You could make a cage
to keep your wrists, your fingers,
to hold your neck a column, to make
a statue to hold your lungs. You should
make something gold, soft, curved claws
to keep you rigid, s Something of Breathingin Writing
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On a Two Year Old`s SurgeryI.
The waiting time. This
is the waiting time. Floors walked.
Eyes blank.
Everything is a constellation.
The sky is blanked out by light,
but ecosystems grow on flat roofs,
echoing the stars we cannot see.
Lichen is creeping over,
making stone of asphalt, and
in moss, there is life.
We will not speak of death.
The anaesthetic was a soft and sudden thing,
a falling, not a going under.
You fell in my arms, a heavy thing.
And while you sleep, we wait.
And we wait, and think of nothing,
our minds turned from the men with tools.
We think of the ones who cared,
who started it all. Of the peaks
of windows and steeples and trees.
Of how wide and flat is a linoleum floor,
and how, while we are at sea,
we are anchored still by you.
Somewhere near it is snowing.
It is snowing at home, but
here are clear skies.
An omen. An omen, we chant.
We turn everything to good and
roll back to bad. The undertow is vicious.
Our thoughts move like waves,
retracting, catching up new things,
tumbling them, On a Two Year Old`s Surgery
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Bone House, II am an ossuary, ban-hus,
and on the way, no wonder,
no alchemy for my audience,
no wæter wearð to bane.
There are no changes here.
My fingers are spindles,
dry knots, something stacked
inside and left to curl. My spine
a knotted road, metatarsals splayed
as dry mountain ridges, as
leading grounds for pilgrims,
flint-hearts who won't pray for peace,
but only for increase and more time.
They will carve out the relics I hold
in slow, slow chips, and in doing
effect a slow Anschluß of my mind.
When they're gone my walls will weaken.
Only then. And on the way, a wonder
while bone becomes water,
and an eorðscræf I will be. Bone House, I
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Sta.sh
. I'm going to send you an invite for my new group.