
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
More Like This

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
More Like This

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
More Like This

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
More Like This
|