vii dimensions of the wound

the wound has seven dimensions: i) free
of the lacerated

idiot, the soul transmutes pain ii) there are
limits to what

heaven can save iii) leave god’s children in
sewers, they will

repair iv) assimilation in bloodstream is
smalltalk v) we

never know the depth of wound until it is
midday vi) to sub

mit is to circumvent vii) there are only six
dimensions

this is not the blue sun’s howl

Love, no this is not the blue sun’s howl      I seek a friend as one strives for another morning’s blunt crawl: why blunt? because the swing of memory has been singed with burn, taut with taciturn immeasurabilia –

love, no this is not what mattered when bridges were burnt in its name      tomorrow’s mirth in my mouth and I stall – the taste of morrow has me gasping for a shallow vowel that hastens to speak the unsyllable –

love, no-thing permits it to see; no-one tries it on more than once      look, the feathers have eaten their fill of flight & sink – O, when the wiseman shook doubt, my tree fell, this plank of some horizon that tells me no lie –

love, the leak on your boat is twice the size of my universe      this bell whose mother stuck her face in the moon’s dark, this bark of happening, trusting that all in the forest will churn –

the red dirt is our house

wither now silent star – blush us
          a solemn greet – the tendrils
          that follow my sun

have fallen – the breadbake
          is starch – the reed not
          silent but unwilling –

we have met this sun before –
          hubris of will, archangel
          of need – caress then with

time and time’s neighbor the
          unendings – the red dirt wet
          & wary is our house till it rains –

v devilupments

i – global myth eviscerated by the vacuums of private hell: culture goes pop – we clap, talk, show
ii – caring not for stars, only what preceded stardust
iii – i have known the ocean as bait; “necessary to shake off pretension,” it said
iv – swallow the adjective before ingesting the noun
v – does the knife believe in the efficacy of cut or was it taught to believe that?

moonstalk

The tread on moonstalk quietly slips
past what is

good what can be thought as good – the
quill depends

on moonstalk just as the night reposes
its trust in the

etch of a bewildered sun     there is no
more sky to burn

the apposite of power

i. the argument goes pffft, anagrams of dissent do salaams to the gregariouness of maul / an argument it is, less tender than all the pretentions of propriety huddled together in Siberia mid winter, reaching for the bulb of cold in the midst of an argument gone awry – the chill factor is zero –

cooption in verse is to snitch on the living idiom of the oppressed, making it palatable for the high lords of culture, informing them thus of where & when to strike next – quite simple actually

ii. do I dot plantain eyes with tees of spent disdain? if so, does grass bother and settle? if it does, where will the pain of mud run away? so much for the dotting of plantains; better to mix with straw and eat raw than belch with the caw-caws of the mildew forest – this, this I say is winter –

how to resist? by choosing an idiom that gets stuck in the throat of power – also pretty simple

iii. I parked my levitation, my want of levitation, by the lamppost, and it lit the shocks, the sharp knells of a hungry bulb – the past was never this clear – nothing is made merrier by lynching the roots of flight –