24 July 2009
Buffalo, NY

“Disembarking the Flagship”

In a quiet, clinical office I sit, pinned to a chair by the weight of my dead heart.
The color has run out of everything in the room.
My seat cushion looks as though it was left in the rain.
The walls have been bleached, as if by accident.
The grays are muted grays.
My mind, though, is crisp, clear.
The death of one’s heart frees oxygen to the brain, and I destroy thought, chase it into corners and flay it with whips.
Coffee on my shirt and spittle in my mouth-corners.
Sweat friction callous brown and clingy on my right hand-heel.
I am an empty missile, a knife with no handle.

A president goes by.

I cannot read. I do not.
I am thought destroyed.
I am action.
My heart lives;
it can die many deaths.
I am a spinal cord.
Tattered gowns lie all around me.
I am a pencilled-in cipher —
I destroy hearts–
I am your food without your belly.

Sid Vicious went to a party and never left.
Sid Vicious went to a party and never left. Sid Vicious went to a party and never left. Sid Vicious went to a party and never left. Sid Vicious went to a party and never left: Sid Vicious went to a party and never left, Sid Vicious went to a party and never left, and Sid Vicious went to a party and never left.
“Sid Vicious went to a party and never left,” Sid Vicious went to a party and never left.
“Sid Vicious went to a party and never left,” Sid Vicious went to a party and never left. “Sid Vicious went to a party—Sid Vicious went to a party and never left.”
Sid Vicious went to a party and never left. Sid

 

 

 

 

 

                                                        Vicious went to a party and never left. Sid Viscous went to a praty and never lift. Shiver party went to a ciscous and brother heft. Sidge. Side biscuits swentstosa pretty and almost lest. Sis Tiscus wept at a parley and heaven sent. Swiss discus burnt a petard ‘e an’ lever biffed. Miss Dick sus. bent a la Marley amped beveled let.

                                    

                                Sid Vicious went to a party and never left, 

                                                                              Sid Vicious went to a party and never left.

7 July 2009
Ellicottville, NY

The charred remains of
last night. My breath
like a bull’s
steaming a capital “A”
with the scruff of
my chin as the
crossbar.
Only the upper leaves
move. They spill
the last of the last
rainstorm into the waiting
roots of the brush below–
and a slow bubbling stream
that only exists when it
rains.
I can never sleep for
these things. Too much
stimulation. Take me
out of the city and I’ll
stay awake for days,
just dozing occasionally
like a golden retriever.
–!–
I hear something in the
woods and wonder what it
was, what it will be.

The charred remains of
last night. A tripod coated
with dew. A stripped
branch, forced into the earth.
My cigarette butts.
Finally the sun reaches me.
A jet banks to the
east, towards everyone
I love. I have walked
through the woods and around
the lake, around its outside.
I slipped across rocks and
toed roots. I glimpsed,
for a moment,
a slug,
trailing mucus across
the charred remains of last
night. It was a master
slug, speckled and horned.

I’m growing quite tired
with all this sunlight.

The charred remains of
last night. Two slugs trying
not to make eye contact.
Somewhere, someone
is cutting down the forest.
The jets pass over me
more frequently
as the world begins its day.

7 July 2009
Ellicottville, NY

The front porch swings
float for miles in
front of me on this
driving range
suspended
forty feet above
the valley.
The valley boils
slowly. Its ridges
and runs
lope carefully toward
the sun exactly
as they are supposed
to. A small band
of the boiled valley–
a thin strip of gauze
against the sky–
chills me to the bone
for only a moment
as it crosses paths
with the sun,
each on a lateral track
to elsewhere,
one contemplating kissing
northern Ohio, one mowing
lawns in the afternoon
in Brookline, MA.
The gravel road
cuts a wet vein in the
grass. It flows more than
it walks towards the sun.
At its end, somewhere in
the rolling boil, I believe
there is brunch.
I will follow it if I
can, demanding pancakes as
I go.