Census Figures!

Hello! 

If you read this blog, leave an "X" in the comments of this post. You can do it under a fake name even. PLEASE. PLEASE. I'm FREAKING OUT. 

Super Sonnet Saturday!

O, you, my hummingbird in a laser beam
beneath my cloak, hung beside the stream
like a ghost ship suspended, above my bed
with yarn lights and spider bites, you hath said

“boy, paint sharp lines of star diagrams.
ride dust waves into town, and tie three lambs
to the back leg of your rust colored horse,
and tow those little bundles to me, of course,

for I have caught fish, strung up on the porch
and stood in the glow of a young man’s torch.
riding through on a mule, from university,
in the languid night hours, I betrayed thee

and will not preen this fan of feathers
or untie my hair for you from its tethers”

Long Before You Were an Artwork

As the blade of moon reveals itself

In the manner of a graceful whore

Gazelles come to feed on a few flowers

Stems like smooth spines 

Petals as several tongues

The lions and antelope

Standing upon their hind legs 

Walk towards the disco

For an evening of cocaine

and soft peaches, boiled

and skinned as an Indian. 

With glitter spilling out across

the dance hall like a concentrated

bundle of stars cut from their net. 

I vomited in the cinema the other day,

distracted for the rest of the film.

Thinking of starting a band,

and yelling over drums stretched

from the skin of the artist himself.

The ants were using one another

as ladders, bundling vertically

to the clump of bananas

hung over there in the brush,

slung indolent like a soft brain exposed.

So, go nimble my darling, my dear,

my vitals, my lake, my fear. 

For you are hungry,

and only the needles of the porcupine,

standing like magnetic fragments,

will sever the balloon, the bladder. 

I've tried everything else. 

And the sun slips into view once more,

like the head of infant crowning. 

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

O, in a series

of wild horses

galloping 

'cross the puddles

of ireland,

a specter hung

in a hammock of

wind

slung between

those muscular

beasts

and the rain 

was suspended 

for a moment

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : before beginning to fall again

its sheets pulled

into angles

by the breathing of the wind : : : : : : : : : : : : 

Double post!

encourage me, cowgirl.

i've hardly a smoldering coal

left for you. 

but don't you know

i've all the fatigue and 

sandman dust

you could use? 

bricks and chairs and grey nails

to hang new curtains

in the drawing room

some winter afternoon. 

or to go from pillow to pillow

trading coins for teeth 

but never really to be sleeping

only sending frustrated 

blades through the bed

feathers all suspended above you

and never to be gripping 

summer sent golden rods,

but handfuls of dark-

and a wooden figure,

formed from the dry

sheets of fallen bark

Wednesday:

the marks of your boot-heels 

in the sand,

leopard footprints 

in the wet fog of rainforest,

lead west 

towards a few guns

and a sun, hanging heavy

like a bandaged hand

and switching positions 

with constellations 

and the wrinkling moon

like a changing of the guard

O, its gotten heavy, hasn't it?

but heavy and delicate

like a glass elephant

or a television

moved down the 

s

 t

   a

      i

         r

            s

from one apartment 

to the next. 

to another haunted apartment

in North Dakota

where ghosts 

move like moonlight

on the steel of a knife

come over some evening

and play hungover piano lines

for me, my dear,

with heavy hands

and a slow bounce of the foot

on the brass pedals

and let it all vibrate, goddamn

from the white tail of your spine

to your fingers

like soft bullets

falling from new bruises

on the hot sides 

of a sun beaten lion 

Old sketch, New Poem

O, I'm serious about

the delicate nature of things

like glass tusks snuck snug

through pierced ears 

hanging heavy so that the lobes

are a weighted a bit while you

walk or push your hair

behind your ears

sitting indian style

on the carpet

O, my God,

I wish you wore heavy earrings

like clumps of fruit

dripping drugs

so there might be 

the slightest warning

that speaking to you

will be like lifting a rock

revealing all manner 

of scattering insects

as you sing the 

distinct songs of hormones

sung in the tongue of whore moans

slung in the slips of skin sewn

with guns on the arms of long bones

goodnight.