Spoken-in-Light

The auburn insomniac, in his shell, in his shoes, with a hairy belly, and not much to do. Old monk on his bed, and a restless head, he sets out towards his window's gloom. The night falls flat, on boot and hat, on floor and street, the bars open or discreet. And he loses some clear air, with his cigarette about, and no one to shout, at his face splashed with serenity. He lost his troubles, and all his gambles, to a constant state of temerity. Such a man of the night, such a spirit with fight, But alas he sold off his dignity.

black holes of sensation painted with invasions of velvet and a scream and key holes of dust and fear replaced displaced into rooms with the cavernous decay of rain and wetness inside, surrounding, overwhelming. Alone, not lonely. In togetherness in illness in stillness in caress It's a mess Yes such a glorious mess It's a blur Of black-hole shine and heat scrapes and abused thighs and love letters of the body incomplete anticipation and clay centers moulded, folded goaded, exploded. Running pain of the blood and the madness thinning it Within within it all contained entwined binding touched in a mausoleum o

She used to tell me of math and poetry by the length of her arm and rhythm of her heart condensing verse and fraction with form following the function of communist theories and greek philosophies. she beat out aesthetics with a perfect symmetry. because no one understands the relationship between seafoam and shoreline the way she does [swimming in saltwater sorrows] reimagining time in an hourglass, she shot up infinities with a glance and left me moondrunk in the night. she emits sparks throughout my system breaking and entering-- my kingdom under siege. her name was an amalgam of numbers 1.61803399 . . . . and I lov

I am a drifter, I am a wanderer, I let go and flow with the tide, In and out, above and below, I am one with the abyssal ocean, I let the waves wash away my fears, As the current shows me my destination, Which is no where in particular; I am a pulsating curiosity, I am a luminescent oddity, Whether striking vermillion, Glowing pink or vague green, Near transparent or vivid blue, By any angle, I look how I am, And I am what I feel; My bait trails out behind me, In deadly shimmering cascades, As my sometimes-neighbors, Tumble right into my lethal trap, Fatal curiosity hides fatal toxins, But this is just what I am, And this

In a morning of translucent golden light you peeled your orange, piece by piece, a globe in god's hands. Each tear a continent drifting –   discarded islands of interest only to the ants. With the soft mantle exposed – you smiled – flayed flesh in your cupped hands. (A kind of straw-tinted plasma wept from the carelessness of your nails) The scent of citrus in the air, sharp and urgent, a chemical weapon, a call to arms. Your religion is your own – you choose to sin. The pious eat only apples.

If I were a line I think I’d be curled, billowed and swirled, and slowly unfurled. I’d sweep over a page, if I were a line, with the wind in my hair, and my heart laid bare. That’s what I’d be, if I were a line. If I were a spot I’d be round and fat (now how about that?) like an old, well-fed cat. I’d have drizzled and dropped, if I were a spot, pittering and pattering with a slight hint of smattering. That’s what I’d be, if I were a spot. If I were a colour I’d be a rich red, like a painted deathbed or a sword to the head. I’d lunge for macabre, if I were a colour, m

The city is a cemetery, broken-windowed sunken-in buildings are headstones reading "Here lies dignity, here lies greatness, here lies Detroit like Elvis: Fat but formerly great." Now, now, my friends, this reality must be accepted – it has not escaped into hiding, to a trailer somewhere in Nevada, its death is real, real as rubber and glass and gasoline. Real as Coney dogs and Motown music and Martin Luther King, as suits that shine with brilliantine riding down to the Joe in limousines as the boys who came with necks in guillotines into the factories with nothing but a dream, out to pockets with only the steam from smok

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin… ~ T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock I am going through the keyless gate to watch and wait, to wander here and there among the proud, among the white and old whose wisdom rots, repressed, untold: the soporific royals wreathed in leaves of gold. And to them I shall read aloud from the Book, read of the sins their lips have took and upon me they shall look and patiently reflect… “I am lost in my own depth,” I will say in a slight, impartial way (for I lack violets and an antic prin