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pareidolia
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long yellow elbow unzips the slit of indigo
the music birthmarks us as twins and cousins
whistle, glass tubes whipping inside of our wall
a limb, a lamb, a white stalk folded in the hay
holy days we waited with armfuls of burning hyacinth
we reshape our names when sea-foam
climbs our salt lamp, shade summons
glass cubes wrinkling inside of our will
at the cliff’s sternum, ankle deep in snake grass
what is a body, if not a seamoth’s husk in the light fixture
unflipping the spice dawn?
what is anatomy? on the beaches of Dover
where the eaglets weather
and whistle inside of the wall
if common breath is not the antidote
for the inclined day, our incarnations can not be diamonded
those long yellows, my elbow, and indigo
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I was asked where I hide my teapot
honey bee on a string spill over like viol
Voilà running away in castle form
you gripped my collar like the ears of a pot
poured me into the tumbling river
& we are together
with uneven breathing
yellow lupinus coves
pails of seawater you fetch from me
and puppets emerge from your bodywool
you were fishing for moons inside of the puddle
where I tipped the samovar
the bees in my head become purple
become gummy grape rings grandmother wears forever
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: do you see that poor little man?
he is stealing berries
my pinky paws are clenched
I am gonna wait here
in the acrobatics of his blueness
: light is up
let's join the ellipses of unconsciousness
intelligent, beautiful queens of turkeys
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the sea…
is where luddites bury their letters
the communal baptismal bowl
an amniotic lure of lines
stitched to the undulating curve
a fetal possession
the sea...
as hand mirror
for bulky Earth
reliable and pliable
says she who lives her life
as liquid plywood
“vulnerability or death”
the first rule of communing
reaching the softness
as glue
solar-bath lapping
her voice vibrates water
with a crisp delay
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what’s the antonym of “bottom line”?
synonymous with floor
bass, ground, earth, foot, stance, root, source
Newton fidgets
and we continue to dig up teeth
which have their own time substance
fugue, dirt, planet, vein
tentacle lapping the glass ceiling
one enormous step
for cephalopod kind
between the three of us
perspiring like tropical waves
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pine tree portrait
I.
as a sea-peeling person
one nibbles the nail of the air
to gawk the river
thinking about how to tarnish its silver belt
II.
as devout give-uppers
who never nettle my jagged skin
III.
as a cat for a year
descending to the next
nobody knows how many threads
of emotion he has fathered
& how many grams of sweets he has confiscated
from the floor for days
IV.
as sea-peeing interlopers
holding our years like
holding a cat, a small animal: fluffy but skinny
body check: but where?
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not until the yellow slanted hour
your astray tonsil, a little coal
tumbled in the collarbone of my thought
smoke rings still haunt me
like a paper boat floating under the river
from inner ear to inner inner ear
we used to dough-roll the days & seal them with our lips
rough them smooth, waving like branches are supposed to
& the flower rings still curl on my fingers
your hair, a thousand just-born angels
corollas which I fail to fish for
every small shake: sea grass
time slushes from your hand
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long elbow of yellow unzips the slit of indigo
a council of fisherman flicker at a table
dissect and regroup, claiming to be a human riddle
who is editing our genes? who would do that?
a man flickers above an operating table
will he change the clock of our pulses?
will his colors singe the standard of earth’s cholesterol?
forever deferred landfall
did it hurt?
will there be time for proteins?
remember the lunar lumbar of our mother?
twins twiddling our thumbs in utero
somersaulting in a carpet sack
slung between totems of cartilage
what would Sappho do? hire a dressmaker?
o, fragmentation in the antechamber of our mother
two girls, let’s call them Gene and Gena
preferring impermanence to taking a stance
I follow your lead
nine times around the moon
Gardenia’s Timesap
Is This Gluey World Inflammable?;
Bills peck like a sunrise
The unshaved hours
Sending off for pilaf
In your bag of accents
That never stabilized
A sapling of gardenias is
As time itself aloft
Trousers overlaid with faulty patterns
Shoes worn in the unchanging deep
A tumbler, flexing comptroller
Named wide-open waiting
As you feel for a pulse
Near a well from the future
A yak avalanche in the making
The roadkill covered the news
You pulled resin from the metronomic
What do you want to graft into your feet?
What do you want to transpose from the sea?
Run, Run, Run;
An unfinished mural at heart
Like many others in the village
Formed by gigantic snails
Unreliable as wills
Who has built us
For ulterior access
With vehicular circuitry
And quartz sand?
Our veins are cloudy
Under its coarse lustre
On this road we must enroll
To turn in lies that foam (as lies)
Listen: water bugs
Are sipping from us
The Decameron of Dye;
We are crude in the act of arrival
Giving details of gardenias
Language throatpaces
Exchanging feet of anarchy
Researching leads to an edifice
A fortress mistaken for a relative
Where doubts still sidel
Constructing us from alms
A curved storefront
Carried by its windows
Cracking at the center
Of the map
Moving Without Admitting It;
It’s windy here
So we stored heaps
Of brocade and ashes
Tableaux tilted by prophets
The generative clauses
Gelled like octopuses
Something pedestrian humidifies
Our resuscitated song
The woman hurls Montenegro
Sprawling in a long plastic chair
The rump of the coastal road
Teenagers as we were
With Pilgrim herding the Earth
Into another quadrant of day
Folded into folding onto
Language sweeps us
Among the rafters like motorcyclists
Flamed in light
Unsutured Wood;
Another day vouchsafed
Pondering the child
With heavy cowlick
The tunnel for taking us back
Is rapidly shrinking
Longing, and the slime of saying it
Are the letters mending well
On the courrier’s earlobes?
You stop repetitively piercing the windows
And breathe simultaneously with us
Knowing we are distinguishing
Happy cell division
Feet of memory are dry to their toes
Roofwise our tongues
Nothing is quiet
In a mirrored landscape
Unless it’s been buried alive
Only in that way
Can the distant gardenias
Clear our eyesight
Grunting Like Drainpipes;
The smells of fetology
Seduced me into the court of dye
I, a suctioned
And untangled textile
Absorbing terra
For example, the dinner bell
Pilgrimstance moments of latency
From planet to pigment
From wood scent to streams of him
Piping the blouse from our clavicles
A quilt in trinal flames
Refracted jet, eyes indigo
Treble and taciturn
Pith feathers between suede pages
Here are the just legs of chairs
The tender music
Of the wooden body
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