Wednesday, April 11, 2012

No Milk Today

--for Rich Owens

For which I will have been writing
A song to kill the message
That poetry only play
Dead here is another disaster
We have recourse to worlds

Multiple of hair
Of milk that won’t arrive
There is a breath that won’t arrive
There is action there is spring
It has passed us by again

Like some parental spirit
To make words tolerable
If we sit on the barricades long enough
Maybe someone will have met us there
If I squat in this book maybe it will rise

More precious than ideas of flesh
Gathering arms against those winters past
Fucked up like little songs we can’t
Sing this world is gone
Into distant melody verdant where

You are going only children
In the future will know
Starving in this happy world
Unprepared to die
Live out this lie of song.

Sunday, April 01, 2012

Envoi (@ Evening Will Come)

Like a dewy abstraction, palpable
And numinous, touches feeling—
“It evanesces”—those feelings touch facts
Outnumbering them,
Hope would not be an
Ally here if I missed anything,
If this long poem—draft of a draft of a draft—were
Not the part taken for the whole
A remnant metonymizing
The accelerated time-lapse of a devastation more
Total than “the end of the world”

Mouth Writing

--for Jordan Scott

Mirror neurons or whatever
One does with the voice
Becomes body like equal
Signs convert what can’t be equal

Witness to this body what
I feel shows off this sense
Having come this far not a
Syntax of common sense

Controls its audience symptoms
Of discourse this suction
Becomes ice it becomes the waves
Lapping through what rhythm predictably

The ice was destroyed so speak
To me the analogue delay
Of voice estranged from voice
Because the mouthpiece can’t relax

The throat therefore there is no grace
No comfort for a voice
Fulfilled before its destiny was
Before we became that song fulfilled

Accidentally do we meet unredeemed
On the lips disavowed by the tongue
Like song itself lallates in the same
Malfunction for a discourse.

Mouth moves the world
And nothing else now
Are we suctioned here
Are we stuck
To the sound of ice

The scratch and scrape
That the shore of these
Sounds lapping are
Their becoming mole
When constriction becomes

Deepest freedom I finally
Found a use for throats
Other than singing
Worlds into being
Other than language being

The house of being
Do you hear me?
Do you miss your stutter?
In misplaced virtuosity
Throw your voice

Become body again
Through constriction become
The range of which
A body does waiting for
Mouth to lead.