bread from the body

The dreadful weight of the world descends
I know. In fact, I know I know. It’s sexy.
Would I lie to you–lover?

True, wherever you’re from it sucks.
Sometimes when I pick up the phone
there is a person on the other end
I’m grateful for, nuzzling my ex-lover
who loves to talk.

The splitting of the USSR is a favorite
topic of hers. It’s dead ass raining down
but I feel nothing this morning.
Fuck it. I have two loves–
espresso and the cup.

What are the birds called
in that neighborhood anyway? Dogs?
Chicago possums?
A nest abandoned in a tool-shed
next to my strip club
cracked me open.

Everything alludes to the mood
of us — and when my daughter calls
bored that the world has not ended
yet because bodies keep everything moving
there is sadness everywhere present.

I woke up thinking about my brother’s body.
Ladies and gentlemen of the state,
the soil is frozen, the weather cursed,
gather your children and ghosts.

Never before have I so resembled
a pastime. Flowers have been picked
from the field and planted on the fairway.
Lord of the barren, almost droll
consequence. Release me.

We’re all here now, in notebooks
craving an unscarred voice.
A weathered woman, nude
enters the barn below the slope
When I was younger
I could open that door
cage the voice
pluck the string
tremble the night

A magpie memory
flies over the snow
and covers us deeply

World I honor you
All pears and buttocks and hips

While we got bashed on the hill
fiddling with nail guns and wooden scaffolding
Rusty rolled his car reaching for candy
Forty years of Jumbo dies a one-handed
geek

oh, if language could just become solid
and all oh’s go so oh away
I would flip your pillow to the cool side
of constellations

I am more than half the age of my father
that is to say each day the city unhinges its jaw
and I climb inside the golden trophy of true addiction
a job would be more musical

A round yellow flurry of evening light
brings a bouquet of flutes
if you can, take the first step and the second
my heart is a black flower

In fifth grade
I looked to apostles, fortune-tellers and
faith healers

I eventually found them
sitting in tree shade
looking parched
like nazis in Vienna

at the top of the hour our sprinkler system wakes
temps swerve and pivot
schemes are conjured
it’s 3 A.M. and I’m grief laden.

Germs talked me into a hotel room
somewhere in Iowa
tired

Dear airbag.  I did consider the Blue Book value

I think by now the river must be salmon thick
Eden like
don’t screw with my head
I’m old and scraping by
This white ash is one I’ve known my whole life

We cast our bones
like bread from the body
black, lacquered, coaxed to sound

the toadstools are starting to come up

I come here for the views


 

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