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Poetry

CMYK

Szk—The scrivener clunks into first gear,

fishing line threaded with beads

cyan yellow magenta

draped around the mid thigh.

Staccato rings through the ripples

between the floor mat’s ridges.

 

This is every desk jockey’s nightmare:

a sentience in the spray. Never mind

all the fractals, all the sunken geometries.

No chaos so much as cloud deformation,

or quark confinement, or those rinds at

Pearly Ruins

I construct the wreckage of some great city

somewhere in the folds

of my chest.

I swallow my teeth.

Let them yawn

down

my throat.

Erecting themselves as pearly ruins

along the landscapes of my ribs.

 

I think about my wasted city.

I wonder what mists tongued their way

through pairs of arms folded against

January.

The Fly

The days rip out from under us

like tablecloths in a magician’s act:

the forks and spoons all neatly spread.

The wine blushes, but does not close

the lids of twin meniscus eyes.

I fish a fly from your Cabernet

and lay it out flat on its back:

afraid to hate a thing

so accidentally dead.

Untitled

stock exchange change

stock stock exchange

the computers talk

computers talk talk

computers talk

 

the stock exchange stops

the computers talk talk

no more numbers

001, 01

001, 0011, 01

 

the computers are done

no more numb 01 001's

 

stock stock exchange

change exchange

no more change

no 1 & 0's for anyone

no one, done

the banks are done

january

january came on the

quick and one day bled

into the next.

breath lingered at the

frozen puddles beneath

the bridge

while men and women

shoved newspaper in

their pockets; two fingers

emerged beneath

a sleeve and

there was enough time

for touching another human,

like one who shivered beneath

a wool blanket next to

a broken space heater.

not some weeks past

they had found

With the Birds

            1.

            Books are Rorschach impressions of the mind—

            as birds, violets nest in the synapses.

 

            2.

            I smell my lover's breath like several sleepless nights—

            You showed me the scar nestled around your ocular

            fringe after falling up the stairs all those years ago.

 

            3.

The Unused Egg Voices Complaint

You smell like you're menstruating.

Inside the night's great gape,

Your skin's twang for the taking.

 

Factual and fiendish, you relate

Two bloodlines together like kin—

You and your sonorous ape.

 

When he starts to show you that dim skin,

His raft is adrift in the rift between the thatching

That seamlessly stitches him in

 

To the heft of shifting limbs, grafting—

ZEUS’S MORNING CEREAL (After Nate Slawson)

You know what’s fucking beautiful?

Buckling lightning bolts for breakfast & tripping

backwards down an elevator shaft while I’m

building your name & whistling my teeth.

Braking and breaking like the car crash we

watched from your bigcity rooftop. I am your hairline

fracture, running the entirety of your femur & you

are hurling me like a shotput from your handpistol.

I am waiting to see if you are awake yet & I am

To Mother

The sign warned “Some Scrambling”

as I began the sandy trail

through golden red rocks, vigilant towers.

Though my shoes struggled for

granite a few times,

I loved feeling protected

by an unmovement,

a grounded chill that lingers

beneath glare and stars and hummingbird hum,

that wears invisibly away

in geological exhalation,

iridescent dust floating

 

far from your comatose morning—

Santuario de Chimayo

I drove 369 miles to stand here

in “el pocito,” staring

next to a girl in pink shoes at the clay

ceiling that hangs low

above cool walls.

Pressure on my thigh,

corner of a donation box.

I feed it a dollar and

the purse snap echoes.

Plastic green spades wait,

propped in the dip of russet dirt.

People will scoop a modest measure,

curative earth to take home

to Santa Fe, or Berlin,

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