You’re always seeking out bridges, examining how ore is made molten and hinged. Tenuous arching makes me tense. I’d like to lie in a field—see no steel in the sky.
i will (hopefully) be post-dating poems for the next long while and posting them. so scroll down before you abandon me. cheating is better than failure, right?
summertime is almost upon us. it will be a new form of analysis if i can write in seasons and not simply between.
When he stumbles, one can be sure that he has momentarily left our circle of senses. It must be tiring work. I hold up his shoulders until he recovers.
Damn it. Put on your helmet and wetsuit, you agoraphobe. Oh, will our anxieties ever align? I claw inside the paint shed, light-headed and nerved as you descend.
He places the radiometer and readies his angstroms. Bodies are always being penetrated, he explains. By solar, direct or obscure? I ask. What about gammas releasing? And the diffusion?
You left your linseed and raw umber; a smear of ultramarine on the sink’s drain. Each morning I frame the scene and prep the canvas. But you’re not coming back.
But what of my expected birth date versus the actual hour? And where Orion emerged? At first the alchemy was enough . . . Now my eyes are not sated by sparkling things.
It’s not really the leather, though I admit it helps. Neither is it the chrome. I purr on the back of this ’74 Honda, arms stiff, cheeks rouged and wind-whipped.
He is liable to start without warning. Pick your public appearances carefully. Do not over-excite. Scheduled maintenance necessary. Rhythm and frequency may vary.
First, just a Bluegill. Then some Shiners. Next a Darting Quillback. But honey, this African Lungfish won’t do, and I never really wanted the waterbed.
I thought soul-matter would be less opaque. He labels the tannins, teaches me to shrink— but won’t let me track or trap. He says the community is at stake. In bed I burrow under several pillows.
I want a tan, he said, I’d like to surf. I should’ve known when I found lathes in the trunk. While I scan the turf for sharks he wanders the shore in cover-alls, filling small vials, lighting fires.
You always order the chardonnay, sniffing at my flute of sparkling wine. What’s so bad about Napa? Mon Dieu, I think to you but your fantasies are over-seas.
He jack-hammers all day, refusing to explain the holes. Even sleeping, I hear him sift gravel in the back yard. For smuggling fossils? Burying Bibles? My mute simply rinses his hands—oh, his hands!
I ducked into the store for some smokes and you disappeared. Yes, I understand you found and followed a fault-line—but this uncharted territory’s too vast for your shoddy navigation.
Notes from the Northern Lights Truckstop and Motel
I strike the dinger for a room, a book, and a beer. For eleven days, I’ve been carrying my silver self on my back. I think of your question (little else), What is the difference between a rational fear and an unfounded one? So I had to leave polar fires oxidizing. Listen, I buried my camera in heather soot. Perhaps I am tarnishing; still I play and then put the cloth to my metal. My dear, the trills I desire are simply to still my brain’s incessant, bleak arpeggios. Polish does not suffice and of course you washed clear. I tire of this lens-grainy sight: the film that shows only the grimace of ignited trees, withered and weathered. I request its source stay unvoiced—your limbs cast the senses, oblique.
You’ve entered the main reaction zone. Stay star-fixed. Even though Madder Lake’s in vogue this year, don’t worry— there’s no malachite in-sphere.
Before rising, tether the wooden dragon. Wait for nautical twilight—Etamin will flare; the lignite lantern will turn the window goethite. You must hold there.