Hopefully a small chapbook will be coming out soon, until then, here is the main piece from the upcoming, a sort of litany inspired by the strange and wonderful day to day.
Burning Traces
I.
I own nothing because I have accepted
everything.
The bottle, the ash, sex, song,
garbage,
the morning succumbing to noon,
the rush of people, stories tragic
and otherwise, the music
of moments.
Sleep or lack of, bliss or otherwise,
rising to meet these things,
all of these stake the same claim.
Ecology contains every atom and
distributes them equally.
There is no stomachache.
There is no ineptitude.
With solace I contain the company of
all things.
In the company of all I find solace.
I embody indifference with passion.
I contain the expelled with repulsion.
I soak the mundane, electrified by its
irony taste.
I shut out the stars drinking the air
and drunk set out to clarify.
II.
Some days we are exhausted and
perfection is easy
while fingers dance, voices sooth and
sing.
Some days we are drunkards:
blinking at dusty neon signs, pool
sticks, floors of cigarettes,
with calloused hands folded over.
Some evenings we are warm curled into
the hair and thighs of a woman,
bed sheets, breasts, and the humming
of vents at dawn.
Sometimes we are revolting sidetracked
narcissistic, and grasping.
We are ( I am) a collection bursting
busy being born and dying.
Either way: I wonder how life can
contain
suicide
and
ecstasy
simultaneously.
III.
So we begin with the dawn of humanity
progress and knowledge
all things contained are only ideas
and ideas are passed through the ages.
Through; windows, warmth, movement or
work.
It is acknowledged in the builders'
hands objects raised.
It is acknowledged in mother's raining
milk, subtle and imbibed.
It is acknowledged in this wine dance.
It is acknowledged in the monk or fry
cook exploring grease and longing.
It is acknowledged in branches casting
silhouettes with soft sighing
extending through – understanding
its own evolution as broken
spaces
culled together.
The whole mysterious tremor spurting
orgasmic toe-clenching eyes over space.
Let it go
It is acknowledged in this glass sugar
coated shaped by light and the understanding of “this” as just
this.
Let it go
The evolution of sound series of
stressed syllables condensed to convey a thought.
Or non thoughts
Let it go
It is contained in fragments left on
dishes, solidified with time.
Let it go
God: the whole fantastic over soul
contracting.
Let it go
The body of yours or mine, great
forms, blades of grass storing agony or longing.
LET IT GO
The politics of dance, cathedrals of
ego rising like brick projects full of tears.
LET IT GO
IV.
Whole histories in minute
particulars (petite – sensations)
like hips / footsteps /
lips pulling in atoms,
(they contain microbes
dating back to the first dawn whatever that is)
Rhythms sloshing with
speech of simple talk:
“How are you?”
“Good!”
The whole play of it
included also in the lack there of pushing and pulling growing and
wasting.
Moments are all we've
got!
V.
Distractions surround.
Even the wise ones need
them.
The fly seeks the light.
VI.
Symbols and
communication, the democratic ideal which is older than the word
itself and all words are pointless yet alive.
Welcome as the coat which
recognizes the cold.
Welcome as the old empty
minded attributes clean and open.
I have no fear of my
humanity or yours.
I have no want but for
naked honesty for the souls cowering in dank rooms full of suspicion
watching time chew its own tongue.
The hot density of worry
which forms at the base, only by distinguishing, only by weighing the
heart with the heavy material of claims.
The cloth which drapes
over the magnitude, is woven into the stars,
every ripple touches
everything, every dream sighs and releases the form,
every understanding
tarnished until we accept:
like moss on a tree
trunk,
the importance of decay.
The importance of sound
sustained by the glass curved clear and distorted.
