I’ve cut two x’s into my wrist
with my pen now I suck
the venom hard the blood
and yellow bile are bitter
the hardest suck I’ve ever done
I’m watching the poison
mercury up the vein
toward the chest pump
but I’ve stopped it
with steady pressure my lips
are hurting the venom
burning exposed tissues
they say you shouldn’t move
keep the limb immobile
if you lose your way
stay with your body
someone will find you
Picturing things in four dimensions—
Gears, shafts, sprockets, chains,
All sizes, shapes, thicknesses interlocked
Pushing, pulling, spinning every direction—
This was my father’s claim to imagination.
The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious.
Just as we do with clouds
We see nebulae as shapes and designs
Name them in the familiar—
Our world was never round.
There are corners at every question mark
with angles to turn on our trespass forward.
Sight is not a straight line
but a curve that meets itself.
I had had this fish
nine years and he was big
as half the tank was wide
and he wasn’t much smaller
the day I got him
so I figured he must be
at least eighteen years old
most likely more
‘I can never get used to taking the host in my own hands
I still stand there like a fool with my tongue out’
The secret not in the flesh
but in the water
which must be chilled
or the body of Christ will curdle
before it is even made
therefore the bucket of galvanised
water must be left out overnight
a cable of noise hangs limply | tangled in a tree above the path to my door
common birdsongs | a gramophone screened beneath a light green veil
Her eyes, fresh out of cataracts
old yellow lenses
she called them
like ‘senior’s moments’
cut out precisely.
The man who lost himself woke up one morning,
an ordinary morning, just like any other.
And realised he had lost himself.
Well, perhaps not lost – perhaps just ‘misplaced’.
Perhaps, just ‘overlooked’.
He checked all the usual places he might be –
in his bed, because it was still quite early –
throwing back the rumpled covers.
And, of course, on the veranda
where he always liked to sit
and watch the changing light.
But there was no one there,
no one anywhere,
no one smiled, and sprang up
to shake his hand…and say, “At last, there I am!”
Wired, the monkey on your back chatters and frets away sleep
with nervous come-back logic, with ass-kick dance routines:
slow-slip, heel-back moonwalk, freeze, turn round and shudder
when you wake at 2am you’re still, amazingly, Michael Jackson.
Turn back with the signature moves all down see the crowd’s
excitement arc on opening night to a perfect broken leg of fame:
So far, 157 million units sold; even when you’re born to it, it’s insane!