Prow, the sky, vespertine, faces

The place where the sky & sea meet in the purple-red |




            Sails, toes, those were yours,

The subtle curled movements in yr hands, little


                        Beach askance, that night, theories! You wanted, like haystack rock

Relentless, ‘udor, under


What is under, always that


Jacking off, those femmes de Prague


Did you forget me dad?

Did you forget me dad?


‘udor, ma’at, trope

                     the ingression into the psyche

and the soft gyrations of the gathering dancer, the dawn-

her blue river, Hopi, fertile, fucks Horace, Thrice Great


         he in pavement in Siena (the one she couldn’t find)


                                 you can’t imagine yr face half in shadow, the smell of seaweed

left to air or grass on yr knees


I speak of small things mainly

















The uniter of the South and North lands

            Under one mace


Our own Agamemnon


            ton anqropon has descended,


                               in the fair sky


the same sky under which

            father shot his head


and watched from a trailing eye his


                                    brains splash the magnolia


: the last sight


            “only god knows how much I’ve loved you”, came from under the ladder


                                                I have noticed your declensions

(those of your body I mean, which is to say,


            how you interact with the ground, feet

and thighs, back


our ongoing love affair with gravity)


                                                                        on these humid nights

lit Troy seems nearer,


                                    that isolated moment of birth, Lotus

in the bosom of the dark waters, Nun



            we’ve come to enjoy the stark white, the muscles, soft planes of them


but of slants, the hieratic movements, their vertiginous regard?


                        And of eyes that watched the counter dawn


            Years later, “artiwV men a crusotiediloV AuwV


                        (in the valley ran the Adige below Venice




















And he walked


            Naked through the market

Carrying only Tolstoy the Christian muttering “ageatis byrjun, ageatis



Later winding up cemetery rd,


            Red oak, bending)


                        Toward his older bones, fresh red clay

By side with other sons of lost causes





coming there to be clean

for once, finally


we are in the trees and through the wind the trees,

this place, cut


by two rds, Mill & 43, but

will never be still


            for me



The skin cools slightly,

            Sinking city, equator heat rain


The three spires of St. Louis

Striking sky,



                        J on a horse

The anti-president, or so


And this river comes by it all – the phallus

            Emerging here, pierced clit

Of the north continent


And crumbling sweeps of upriver

                                                                        In the leveed bends


The drained swamps and potholes,

            Old columned houses cowering,


The coming heat of August


            Make way for history they scream

                        Silently, to themselves

Only, as in curtained Galatoire’s





A topless revue now                                                      and


Farther down in hiemal January

Runs river fog


Glazed in placed by the pallid glows

Of street lights



What once was here stays


                        VENOMOUS & VIBRANT


This subterranean

This sex swamp

At the bottom of the sky






we have men,

                                    our oceanic, tales

of tribe,                                    crossings

              (things self-evident?)

things manifest:            death in its forms, republican –


                         “campaniles” in cluster, Folsom, etc.


            God, in his varied ways)


The OPEN, and of skin?


                                                                                                Of sweat, of conscience?


            The look of it, slanted

Like me, changing,






        Thousands of them

Birds too


Join us (then), the crease, of light,

It sings, Goya’s cross at the end of the room


Set off




                                             For the most part

Light, of what is immediate,

Available, that is


                     What is given


Is most prominent among its lack

The measure of Is is what is not




Ruins, the bow, the bow! Look!


         50 yrs, sacerdotal (cantos, bridges, et al.



                     can’t find the cusp, the what I want to say but)


bald cypress and swamp are this place, moist

like between worked skin


         strike right through the heart of the sky


(cypress root systems have periodic upshots of 1-12 inches; though their exact function

                                 remains unclear, perhaps they are for structure, perhaps for breath) and


         extending out in the green water the stalagmites

dormant alligators, merciless sun

and floating

                                 houses (mattresses stuffed with Spanish moss)



what moves:


the Tigris, our mouths


EroV, water, cum




                     Atahualpa garroted

         As a commoner Catholic




                                 They called you that,

Opener of stone, then


And all that which


         Does not change (djet): which is to say, all that which remains perfect


Horloge! Dieu sinistre




I just remember

Grass, the tall yellow

                     Dead and the ones bent

Over, “their coats are like winter”


                     A wrinkle merely in the Guadalupes, nothing






         Who changes:


I will be no man’s tributary

As for my faith I will not change it.

Your own god was put to death by the

Very men he created.

And mine still looks down upon his children.





what made those ripples

         possible, your mother’s dress,

white (in certain light),


it’s Elko NV, summer, and we’re on vacation


         (I’ve forgotten much of it, mostly the browns remain




when you feel it rising from beneath you


                                 how it all begins to pierce and cover everything up and your eyes

become closed

                     and all that ever was angry and massacre


and high and violent rises out and parts become gone


         and for a quiet, isolated moment wholeness is




a flight


                                             of screaming birds, a school


of herring through


                     the water,

a silken sheet, and


                                                         filling their clamor/ SPACE


         I am quantum

To be here and to be there


Wavelike and particle)


                                 Fetter, all of us, of the coming around again



















And it came invisible red,

            Archaic shutters, the ekpyrotic perturbations




It seems, on some far end of a runic scale


Sea deep & dark


                                    Notice the bend of things in water,


And the refraction

Of faces and sounds in time, May


Termite swarms, clouds of them

Trembling for their moons,


                                                And finding none


Walking slightly behind a lover


                        The skin,




                        How it somehow induces)




Awake, 3:20 am


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