Category Archives: Poetry

Gallery

This Is Inside

This gallery contains 12 photos.

  And yes, they find discarded husks of locusts in the tall slick grass. And yes, flies of all sizes make of themselves offerings on the altar in the downstairs room. This place, a cell of silence, flame, and smoke. Clinging to the fabric, tiny eyes separate from once alive bodies. The wall, a larval manifestation […]

Gallery

This Is Left

This gallery contains 9 photos.

  Always we walked in the whole awful everything of it, teeming with incessant joy. What do we know of patterns and paper? What do we see of the difficulty of awe? What will this time say? Arms, legs, teeth all locked. Words all locked. So and yet and still returning. Pensive and late and blister and rot. Distracted, it […]

On Acquiescence and Its Opposite

By Posted in Agoraphobia, Poetry, Questions Tagged , , , , , 4 Comments
 
She gets quiet after each full moon, her intuition waning almost immediately. Before, a culmination exploding, something more than ever could be. But now, all of her eyes, swollen and foggy, lock from the inside. She takes, again, to eating flowers. Floating on the thin nest of spider silk and honeyed salamander skin, she watches the heaving trees. How do they withstand so much? Each gust a battering snarl crawling hard from cloud to bough to trunk to deep root shiver. She bends not nearly so much. All back ache and bruised knee. All busted lip and broken skin. On the edge of the dew damp bushes one crow thrashes its morning meal. The snake, like an old worn out shoelace, flops dead in the bird’s clenched beak. 
Gallery

This Is Forgetting

This gallery contains 9 photos.

  We couldn’t do it otherwise. Silent through doors, in chairs, legs of and cushions. Press the meat to dried lips, red on red, and wrinkled love. Frozen knots of light flicker through plastic. And once we walked in green and fallen brush and spring. We lurk and trample. Leave scars. Creep slowly across the wall. Imagine we know something of […]

Ritual No. 51

By Posted in Ethnographic Surrealism, Poetry, Questions Tagged , , , , Leave a comment
 
The last April rains pulled the warm perfume from the withering blooms. Subtle aromatic almost gone sweetness invested with a breath of stench. All goes green soon and even the rain makes it so. She said, “Remember the flowers,” but we slept and soon forgot. Stepping from linoleum to concrete to carpet to plastic to blacktop to concrete to brick to linoleum, we decide to play innocent with each inhalation of blueberry, celery, pepper, garlic, chocolate, lavender, bleach, meat and meat and meat. What trick makes us believe this is the world? What trick makes us never even ask such a question? She bathes herself in smoke and rosewater, drips essence of gorse, sweet chestnut, cherry plum, and crab apple. In the end it isn’t enough. The brick in her throat remains regardless of how much oil she swallows. Reaching up through the old gash in her belly, she can wiggle the nested brick, but never quite enough to mean anything like real movement. She doesn’t utter a sound. The roses puff and unfold. Understand, this was all we knew of red. Now, the books, these sheaves of paper, this floor, ceiling, walls, shelves, this door, all covered in an explosion of roses. Our eyes battered also with all we mistook for abundance. What glamour is added now and what hush? This place a pathway. What crushes us more, the intention or the loss?