h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s





[Act I: Prologue from the Proscenium]

Enter I.

It is dark, but not yet. You is set to arrive
at the set time. Unpack the silver, boil
the toast, spell out and out etcetera. This and that
affect, world-scraps. Why yes, bohemian
crystal, yes, handiwork of some destitute,
be easily impressed, touch if you plan on
touching. We talk how people talk
on their way to bed. What’s that
metal thing above the door?
(The sky
had turned it up under my foot along
the railroad, a ring corroded to horseshoe.)
It is a metal thing. We want too easily.
You leaves—darkness, decorous—rankling
before dawn turns stranger, but not yet.

[Act II: Fourth of July Party]

Enter: extras.

I: Did you notice the world cease
and start up again? Clearly what our side
by side has done? She: Yes, I’m burning
with boredom already; do I have
to show you how? And again, to another’s
logistics, I: Shall we prove our right
or wrong first? She:
And again the fireflies
reset the coordinates at the far end
of the yard, revised and intent,
(take your bearings, try her!).
And again, I:
for eye contact] She:
And again, I:

Exit some resolve.

[Act III: Soliloquy re-enactments of an ending]

I: Oh there goes our door! Slipped hinge
and all, circling a few times around
our heads before clearing the trees,
before closing up its piece of sky, au revoir.
It was so good to us, our little zeugma, now
our museum piece, ta-ta. In its infancy
we coddled it like a fine conjugation (Latin
for inflect the yoke) and its adolescence
of Here boy, good dog, fetch! How it
snarled and snapped, but we knew:
we were a legend in its heart. Oh, our near
legend written over the old legend,
the page nearly solid black, so good
for an us, so useful when no one’s around,
so good, so good,

Exit nearly everything.

[Act IV]

Enter I’s mind. Dense terrain, pines

In the underneath I set a trap for a trap
and hide and don’t move since You
is moving, omnipotent parting
of—right now—a watery near dusk bluing
under the pines. I have baited it with
so much to assemble and hid and still don’t
move. You knows it’s a trap and strides
as one who knows. The sky drags
its teeth into the earth, or: a twig snaps
under my foot, I try to still me, assume
I’m spinning, but can’t be sure. You is
nearing and/or is there. Deft
brace of jaws with stick [I watch]
swap-out bait with decoy [ferrous
veined Feldspar patched by Quartz]
and off [air of little torrents, narrow
air of gone], back into the pines. Ha.
I reset the spring in the jaws, re-bait,
re-scent, put the stone in my shoe. You
must change, now You must change, now

[Act V: Back at Party]

I returns.

I: I’m sorry what? Apparently someone
has touched me on the forearm to get my attention,
hewn an orbit there, in the pines where two
embrace who think no one’s looking, but I am
and have been watching for some time now
(eventually turning back to my book
or some such and the thought loses gravity,
spinning out wider, thinner). Apparently someone
is talking to me, several are looking my way.
I [panicky, too loud]: Watermelon! Oh, let’s believe
wildly in watermelon! Let’s wedge
our faces, spit seeds at the moon,
let’s swallow a patchful, feel the roots
threading our liver, our hunger,
let’s parlay and parlay this into something
that resembles a love life, Oh watermelon!
And the party goes back to normal, munching
on embers, fireworks in the eyes, etc.

[Act VI: Envoi from the Back Porch]

Sparklers: seen off a mirror and a window
through another window and outside. Really a simple
matter of undoing reflection back to sparklers
and the hand (spinning, carnivalesque) the sparks
are biting into. The sort of door this biting makes
hot against the spinning hand circling a brightness,
cool against the night air. The opening and opening
of this door and the walking and walking through.


After numerous descents the river spreads too thin to move, 
it hails me, “stranger, friend.” It says, “Your idea of iris,
poised and reflecting in our still water, reminding you of you,
is not revelatory. Turn its inconsequence over and over, creasing blue
deeper into petal, until it is yours, until the iris is vanish, until
it is there in your vision of you picking it. ” Meanwhile, time curls
like paper in fire; a sung out stalk rasps, it hails me “stranger, friend.”


The river and I continue swapping stories of
“long-suffering” and “at the wars” and “this is it boys.”
The rule of our understanding is gold leaf hasted
to a charcoaled branch yet to be unearthed,
yet to be pulled from the fire.


I am hunched over the water, making a hand shadow
of a bird of prey, a live piece of flyleaf darkened solid
to line, angling through the trees, past my hand
to water, to the sand and limb rot bed. Between
the shadow bird, moving, and my shadow body, moving,
is meander etched on a map, balled up and smoothed out.


Should I be more aware of progress, or direction,
or (fill in the blank)? Long we swap stories of “talk-suffering”
and “jocose joule” and “on on onward.” Direction is putting
one foot beyond another foot. One foot out of my mind
is raw flesh, another foot, river flesh, another incessant
and furthering flesh, trail and eroding flesh.


Meanwhile I come across a statue standing ankle deep in the river, 
it hails me “Stranger, Friend.” It says, “midway amid the games,
others have worn away my ankles, skin and flesh. Providently,
two corroded iron bones are holding me up. I stand an inch
taller than you. You ask what I see. I see you, iris.”
Meanwhile the river laps and laps and laps and rivers the meanwhile.


The statue tells me many things, which, in mid-air,
become something else before landing in my head, its aerie.
Green twig green, should I coddle these nestlings?
Should I examine their continued fate
as they vanish, somewhere resetting my parameters?


I am never as flush to the river as I should be,
never an exact rulebook for the handful scatter of flyleaf,
minnow, sand, ripple, the rule of myself is proving neither
fatal nor redemptive. Tethers inevitably tighten and uproot,
the statue is dragging behind me, it is on my back.


What I had just been looking at must have been very bright
as my vision is buckling in the center. Sunlight angles through
the surrounding burnt forests where the fire is eternal
and has yet to happen and was beautiful when it was lit.
My wish is to lie down, fall towards death into sleep,
and let the animals judge me, and then wake up, anew.
I mistake many things for source, and so, briefly, they are.


An out of tune humming catches in my throat,
a neuronic bundling misshapen with quarry and on and on
with no recourse, a bone dirge. Where there is reason
to be had, it will be had, will be gulled out of perish,
frankincensed and myrrhed. Amid the current I follow
passages of whitewater until they outrace my eyes.
Intact and no longer mine, the river folds my stare
into itself, a leaf touches the swept surface, a far glint
smolders. I mark these things in my flesh.


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