journey.
March 23, 2013 § 4 Comments
utopia: come back through the tunnel and arrive
when the night is backing from parked cars
noisy-le-grand.
seldom come they singing without mouths
moving in time to the stars and the last
sentenced to upheaving cobbles; fall ye.
Utrechtenaar give me a way to say ‘buried’ without the end
leave it to the mythmaker, Sabba, go now
to white women dancing away the nightflies in an anaemic haze
leave it to the halfway in translation
and behold, our roots are
grounding. the roots are grounding.
XI.
March 16, 2013 § Leave a comment
a few notes not the whole bar
one can’t remember the other
for the world will inherit the back of my hand
and the moon will lay down and play dead
in the sand, at the wide, wide
side of the earth
where it’s known one can fly, one can fall
as one likes; such is the freedom of will
and the burden of being
contained, like a seed in the mouth of the earth
or a man in a bar, in a bar, bowing darkly to easy amnesia
and such
is the freedom, containing
the birth
art as politic.
March 10, 2013 § 1 Comment
Write about what you know, not what you know too well.
The sun, as radiation.
Prose is the song of the historian.
Write about what you know, not what you can learn.
Feet, waiting on tiles of light outside
the house like an ark.
Write with your heart open and your eyes closed. Write with your dream hanging and your life poised. Write with your knowing becoming, and your becoming, unkown. Write with your feet free and your house on fire, with your past present and your present. Unpresentable.
Write about what moves you, not what keeps you still.
Write about what you know, not what you know too well.
