Category Archives: Friends
I AIN’T GOT A HOME ANYMORE
to say that name is an extension
So one of us builds the other
adds the mysterious strobe lights
The design has disappeared
from the Milky Way
just like yesterday
Screw it, who cares
LOVE ME, LOVE
ME SAY THAT YOU LOVE
ME. FOOL ME
GO ON &
Pick your own apples. Please
dare I gently kiss
this isn’t the first time we’ve touched
a unique sound. Fragrant world employing
a momentum from dark squeals
—lips that you can’t place
leading you closer
to some crazy
something you may or may not want
to find ‘only in America.’
What is that cliché?
with goodies for special interest
in a song like
‘In Love’ makes drowning
in grain an understated pleasure,
lets swagger slip in.
She’s more adventurous in bed
than health care
after hours and
the known moons must remain open
for you to receive any
or all of the rewards
which will be credited to
a fourth dimension beyond jeans. Don’t say a thing about
How I Lost My Body
there is a sudden surge of rain
smoking on the balcony, love
is strange when lit up
like mistakes but basically
good. We believe there’s a
manual crammed with footnotes,
of love’s end come
to light, and I
could go on
and on but
there is only so much
time and I
have many things to forget
I just saw a beetle bounce out of the grass. I don’t know why I started this note with a beetle bouncing out of grass or why I didn’t write wriggled. (I just like those Bs next to each other.) But… I’m thinking of you. And your dress and the lightning from last night. Perhaps your dress had lightning in it as my pocket is filled with electricity. Now
I am thinking of how your fingers are filled of dawn. Of hope.
I hope I remember to get the ghosts out of my refrigerator before I see you again.
I have a beard of grapes and I love your ice cream lips. I especially love your driftwood eyes and when they land on my land, and how your little arms are little beds of snow and babe, I want to fall all over your land. If you know what I mean. (Wink.) I mean
your voice is a picnic in my ears and I want to carry your heart in a little box in my pocket, love burning with the odor of twilight
I’ve been trying to bracket off my radiator mouth but there’s too much grease in it and a rubber bell that rings like an ice cream truck muffled by my wool throat.
Call me Roberto, and I’ll be Roberto. Call me granite because I’m hard to cut through, though
I hope if you call me skull it’s because I’m in your head. Call me insomnia and I’ll be in your bed. Call me a grenade and I’ll be an explosion like those in Afghanistan till you feel my love in your teeth at night while you sit on the porch, watching lightning strike the grass as you feel the wind comb through your hair to graze your face as I am both a grenade and the wind at night.
Love is no mirror, it’s a pit and you’re the pit
of a peach that I want to taste as night begins I multiply more than electricity. I don’t care what you call me, as long as you call me. Love
There’s not much to write about today.
Last night I sat on the porch and watched the lightning comb through the sky.
DTE turned off the electricity yesterday and I have grapes and ice cream and ghosts in the refrigerator that I must eat soon. Shall we have a picnic?
I am heating the house with driftwood I gathered from the beach and I found my heart there, too. Weird. I thought I left it resting on the radiator.
I am happy on the hillside
and you are
all a blur.
You are so [ ].
(Complete the word.)
I don’t know.
I didn’t want to speak
of certain things, how
all the days burned
so cheaply as a symbol.
Already it’s time and nothing is
on the beach. Desire is
a moment long enough for a hand without sweet-talk
in the mouth.
I didn’t notice the
fragile things. Color begins from
the season’s memory of
desire turns into a river.
I am called lava and water.
I am everywhere.
You are my light
sparkling up, coming back home.
Say: here is room
enough for you
and an orange.
I miss you. In the summer
never any closer, not quite there,
far too much
in the present
I could be the night unfolding
that place where sound is a… hush now.
I’m hot as hell, thin and
lonely with the hope… I don’t know.
I come back home
to scrape heaven’s
kind of silence
thou shalt not
take this sound
filled with mist to
appear infinite falling in love
with a tongue, falling in love
each morning, shaping
this small place and I said like a child:
The rain begins
promising continental breakfast.
I am gourmet in my bed.
The wind simply takes you
to all the scattered ideas,
once home not home yet
maybe of love, one is plenty.
Tonight, I was a little bird,
brilliant and something beautiful.
I said wait, stay with me with broken metaphors.
No—I wanted a tale free of the hypotenuse,
the tricky algorithm.
I can’t deny the flowers
in your blue tongue stuck with sweetness.
I had made something like this,
a whole life, in the dark.
Love, you can sway, it’s summer.
The eucalyptus trees
in my heart could be loved
if I could
be a priest.
(experiment with the Fishouse anthology.) August 14th-17th, 2012. Reconstructed in Ann Arbor, Milford, Waterford, White Lake, Michigan.
lines from collaboration with Nick and Jonah from Temporal Arts Collective.
“and you said a promise to sing me home”
I was trying hard to cling to
some other thought: I want
to write myself
away and back to you
in the present
—all the words
come out all wrong
when I’m trying not to shatter.
Come smoke me with yer body
in the cool mist
and bind our little parts
of speech with something that’s lovely.
Whatever it’s going to be
is what I need to know.
We have forgotten that sort of feeling
rips away more easily and with less danger others,
that perfume transmits information that’s not historical
the instant we touch. Please, under no circumstances, speak of love.
Put something to my lips.
I feel you taste as fancy candy does,
so sweet, so wow.
Can I catch the perfume
of yer laughter in a flower?
There’s nothing to write about.
This evening passed as usual
but still the soul asks for causation:
I’ve been trying to find
a new mouth in the cruel night of clouds
dim from end to end as the heart or a leaf.
Oh how I want acts of terrifying gorgeousness.
Truth is, I am lonely
for a little light to come down
and touch me but I look up and it’s gray
and I have no desire left for the world.
Sometimes I feel fine, fine, but
my hands very much want
people who care passionately
for what sex is all about very little love
and but I have remained closed for so many years.
Please, under no circumstances, speak of love
when I’m trying not to shatter.
I consider myself very charming,
all humble and handsome,
—the days come along
one after another and everything
is gone—I am gone
Often I thought about the West, the day-to-day variation
of teeth inherited with a pain pouring
upon the poems—I’m trying to make
a fool out of myself.
I feel inadequate and constrained, Anne Carson
There’s no way to get it right.
Please explain it to me
before I go all Salvador Dali
I can only offer you
snowflakes made of real snow and blankets of kisses.
Note how at night the light must leave
for us to begin to relate—
just fuck me
daily—We could rehearse the well-known We’ve become
nothing —the ghost of yes and O
I’ll love you as snow loves rooftops Your lips are
a religion. Right now
(it’s 11:54 a.m. EST.
February 8, 2012) the world’s all wrapped in
oranges at this moment Now
since you do not exist
I love the hammer
of your laugh—
how it breaks
(bit by bit, sound by sound)
the wall I’ve built
this heart. I love the spring day
in your eyes
(all blue, green and gray).
Your lips are a religion
I sacrifice myself to
of your kiss