1269 Arts and sciences poems

Story takes her skin. Story takes her bones. She finds her toes and her fingertips. When she speaks, like salmon running, the dead and the living converge. The river of memory rocks the hunger of claws and tongues. Electricity swallows itself back through its double-prod picana, bullets dislodge themselves from their chore of destroying the same day over and over again, and from the caverns of fear and revision, skin resurrects the skin. Each sentence closes in like the crawl of split skin sealing its red, wet avulsion. The enormity of the pending night scares the seven assassins on trial. They understand that in hell, they will eat their own throats.

I wanted to tell the veterinary assistant about the cat video Jason sent me But I resisted for fear she'd think it strange I am very lonely Yesterday my boyfriend called me, drunk again And interspersed between ringing tears and clinginess He screamed at me with a kind of bitterness No other human had before to my ears And told me that I was no good Well maybe he didn't mean that But that is what I heard When he told me my life was not worthwhile And my life's work the work of the elite. I say I want to save the world but really I want to write poems all day I want to rise, write poems, go to sleep, Write poems in my sleep Make my dreams poems Make my body a poem with beautiful clothes I want my face to be a poem I have just learned how to apply Eyeliner to the corners of my eyes to make them appear wide There is a romantic abandon in me always I want to feel the dread for others I can feel it through song Only through song am I able to sum up so many words into a few Like when he said I am no good I am no good Goodness is not the point anymore Holding on to things Now that's the point

FYRSTE MYNSTRELLE ... The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte; The mees be sprenged wyth the yellowe hue; Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte; The nesh yonge coweslepe bendethe wyth the dewe; The trees enlefed, yntoe Heavenne straughte, Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe to whestlyng dynne ys broughte. The evenynge commes, and brynges the dewe alonge; The roddie welkynne sheeneth to the eyne; Arounde the alestake Mynstrells synge the songe; Yonge ivie rounde the doore poste do entwyne; I laie mee onn the grasse; yette, to mie wylle, Albeytte alle ys fayre, there lackethe somethynge stylle. SECONDE MYNSTRELLE So Adam thoughtenne, whann, ynn Paradyse, All Heavenn and Erthe dyd hommage to hys mynde; Ynn Womman alleyne mannes pleasaunce lyes; As Instruments of joie were made the kynde. Go, take a wyfe untoe thie armes, and see Wynter and brownie hylles wyll have a charme for thee. THYRDE MYNSTRELLE Whanne Autumpne blake and sonne-brente doe appere, With hys goulde honde guylteynge the falleynge lefe, Bryngeynge oppe Wynterr to folfylle the yere, Beerynge uponne hys backe the riped shefe; Whan al the hyls wythe woddie sede ys whyte; Whanne levynne-fyres and lemes do mete from far the syghte; Whann the fayre apple, rudde as even skie, Do bende the tree unto the fructyle grounde; When joicie peres, and berries of blacke die, Doe daunce yn ayre, and call the eyne arounde; Thann, bee the even foule or even fayre, Meethynckes mie hartys joie ys steynced wyth somme care. ... MYNSTRELLE’S SONGE O! synge untoe mie roundelaie, O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, Lycke a reynynge ryver bee; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Black hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe, Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee, Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote, O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: Mie love ys dedde, Gone to hys deathe-bedde, Alle underre the wyllowe tree. Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, In the briered delle belowe; Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, To the nyghte-mares as heie goe; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude; Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, Schalle the baren fleurs be layde, Nee one hallie Seyncte to save Al the celness of a mayde. Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys death-bedde, Alle under the wyllowe tree. Wythe mie hondes I’lle dente the brieres Rounde his hallie corse to gre, Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres, Heere mie boddie stylle schall bee. Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne, Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie. Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.

The sneck's aye sweirt and ayont a doverin cratur wi a lit o the lowe they ken ilka gadge on the bowe bi the soond o thir foot-fa glisk the skyrie lamp hingin on the smittie ceilin a spreckelt green plaunt is deein a wandert bairn greets aneath thon laich an gowstie lift at lang an last the onfa.

Whispering to each handhold, “I'll be back,” I go up the cliff in the dark. One place I loosen a rock and listen a long time till it hits, faint in the gulf, but the rush of the torrent almost drowns it out, and the wind— I almost forgot the wind: it tears at your side or it waits and then buffets; you sag outward. . . . I remember they said it would be hard. I scramble by luck into a little pocket out of the wind and begin to beat on the stones with my scratched numb hands, rocking back and forth in silent laughter there in the dark— “Made it again!” Oh how I love this climb! —the whispering to stones, the drag, the weight as your muscles crack and ease on, working right. They are back there, discontent, waiting to be driven forth. I pound on the earth, riding the earth past the stars: “Made it again! Made it again!”

When one thing is becoming another, when writing is morphing, when the writing of an hour becomes the desire to write at all hours and into the night, fueled on caffeine or wine and desiring instruments of writing; typewriters, even a nib and ink well, and considering all the ways of stretching a space, digital or hard copy; hard copy, an ugly expression for printed matter, and for that matter, printed matter is efficient but lacks beauty. Page, a soft and elongated word; page, an extension at the end of my fingers; page, a screen that holds dreams and desires; the page of legal document that bind. The page is a promise. I read all sides, turning the page counterclockwise and turning the page over for what I may have missed. Desire is a stick for scratching words into the dirt and for chiseling stone until the words become solid. The pen is a body, an anatomy, not an earthworm with indecipherable ends; the pen has a head and tail, and inky guts. And the brain of the pen belongs to the maker of marks. later hours/another hour/late hours/early hours/happy hour/visiting hours. All the elements of the dying hour surround my laptop, in the dying blades of cut grass and in the dying battery. Finches continue their making of a nest of twigs and grasses, but I know the nest is early paper, the raw ingredients and pulp. I know the world is a page turner, a paper globe, and I know that the birds are the great writers of the sky.

In memory of Anthony Kerrigan The pure shapes of things shake and are fall ing under the cry of bajo el cri cri and chirping of the six margaritas daisies that I loved but now know deflower when the men bent upon murdering me bend down in cabinets and on cliffs and in cafes where some flamenco guitarist breaks his fingers on the grave accents   /   /   /     breaks his fingers on the acute \ \ hunting now even in the graves

intensity and height I want to write, but only foam comes out, I want to say so much but it’s all crap — there aren’t any numbers left that can’t be added up, nobody writes down pyramids without meaning it. I want to write, but I’ve got a puma’s brains; I want to crown myself with laurel, but it stinks of onions. There’s no word spoken that doesn’t dissolve in mist, there’s no god and no son of god, only progress. So come on, to hell with it, let’s go eat weeds, eat the flesh and fruit of our stupid tears and moans, of our pickled melancholy souls. Come on! Let’s go! So what if   I’m wounded — let’s go drink what’s already been drunk, let’s go, crow, and find another crow to fuck. hat, coat, gloves Right in front of the Comédie-Française is the Regency Cafe; and right inside it, there’s this room, hidden, with a table and an easy chair. When I go in, house dust, already on its feet, stands motionless. Between my lips made of rubber, a cigarette butt smolders, and in the smoke you can see two intensive smokes, the cafe’s thorax, and in that thorax an oxide of elemental grief. It matters that autumn grafts itself into other autumns, it matters that autumn merges into young shoots, the cloud into half-years, cheekbones into a wrinkle. It’s crucial to smell like a madman who spouts theories about how hot snow is, how fugitive the turtle, the “how” how easy, how deadly the “when.” best case Look, at the very best, I’m someone other — some guy who walks around marble statues, who enters his adult clay into indexes of blood, and feels the rage and fear of the fox chased to its hole — and if someone anoints my shoulders with indigos of mercy, I’ll declare to my absent soul that there’s no hellishly paradisal elsewhere for me to go. And if they try to choke me on the sea’s wafer, telling me it tastes like His flesh, more acid than sweet, like Kant’s notions of truth, I’ll cough it all up:No, never! I’m other as a germ, a satanic tubercle, a moral ache in a plesiosaur’s molar: in my posthumous suspicions, all bets are off! another day of life I’ll die in my apartment on a cold bright day, with nobody around, the apartment next door gone dead still while wind whistles through the balcony, though the branches somehow aren’t moving, just as the sun doesn’t move, everything’s so quiet, so frozen. Parked cars, plastic bags bleached in the bare trees, a couple of those Mylar balloons tied to a chair on the balcony next door, celebrating something, maybe? ... now sagging listless on the floor, as if every last molecule had been pierced by a needle — Tom Sleigh is dead, he stared up into the air, the sky was pale blue as usual and he couldn’t feel the cold coming through the window, and there wasn’t much to say or not say — and nobody, anyway, to say or not say it. my jailer won’t weep to be my liberator My cell’s four walls, whitening in the sun, keep counting one another — but their number never changes, despite my jailer’s innumerable keys to chains wrenching the nerves to their extremities. The two longer walls hurt me more — who knows why — their salt-stained cracks like two mothers who die after labor, but give birth to twin boys whose hands they still hold. And here I am, all alone, with just my right hand to make do for both hands, raising it high into the air to search for the third arm that between my where and my when will father this crippled coming-of-age of a man. insomnia is the only prayer left How childish is the spectacle of the stained glass’s holiness: the night doesn’t give a shit what goes on inside human beings, the night has its own web of dendrites refuting the inane prayers prayed for the dying, for the confessions going on between earthworms and earth, between the way a man argues with his own shoulder bones. All the while, barracudas in a coral canyon, a sea turtle flying, swim through fathoms and fathoms of images that keep crashing on the shore of the eye that never shuts — and smarts in its sleeplessness staring up into the dark shadowed by stingrays, gas stations, the slow flapping wing of a lottery ticket.

I However the image enters its force remains within my eyes rockstrewn caves where dragonfish evolve wild for life, relentless and acquisitive learning to survive where there is no food my eyes are always hungry and remembering however the image enters its force remains. A white woman stands bereft and empty a black boy hacked into a murderous lesson recalled in me forever like a lurch of earth on the edge of sleep etched into my visions food for dragonfish that learn to live upon whatever they must eat fused images beneath my pain. II The Pearl River floods through the streets of Jackson A Mississippi summer televised. Trapped houses kneel like sinners in the rain a white woman climbs from her roof to a passing boat her fingers tarry for a moment on the chimney now awash tearless and no longer young, she holds a tattered baby's blanket in her arms. In a flickering afterimage of the nightmare rain a microphone thrust up against her flat bewildered words “we jest come from the bank yestiddy borrowing money to pay the income tax now everything's gone. I never knew it could be so hard.” Despair weighs down her voice like Pearl River mud caked around the edges her pale eyes scanning the camera for help or explanation unanswered she shifts her search across the watered street, dry-eyed “hard, but not this hard.” Two tow-headed children hurl themselves against her hanging upon her coat like mirrors until a man with ham-like hands pulls her aside snarling “She ain't got nothing more to say!” and that lie hangs in his mouth like a shred of rotting meat. III I inherited Jackson, Mississippi. For my majority it gave me Emmett Till his 15 years puffed out like bruises on plump boy-cheeks his only Mississippi summer whistling a 21 gun salute to Dixie as a white girl passed him in the street and he was baptized my son forever in the midnight waters of the Pearl. His broken body is the afterimage of my 21st year when I walked through a northern summer my eyes averted from each corner's photographies newspapers protest posters magazines Police Story, Confidential, True the avid insistence of detail pretending insight or information the length of gash across the dead boy's loins his grieving mother's lamentation the severed lips, how many burns his gouged out eyes sewed shut upon the screaming covers louder than life all over the veiled warning, the secret relish of a black child's mutilated body fingered by street-corner eyes bruise upon livid bruise and wherever I looked that summer I learned to be at home with children's blood with savored violence with pictures of black broken flesh used, crumpled, and discarded lying amid the sidewalk refuse like a raped woman's face. A black boy from Chicago whistled on the streets of Jackson, Mississippi testing what he'd been taught was a manly thing to do his teachers ripped his eyes out his sex his tongue and flung him to the Pearl weighted with stone in the name of white womanhood they took their aroused honor back to Jackson and celebrated in a whorehouse the double ritual of white manhood confirmed. IV “If earth and air and water do not judge them who are we to refuse a crust of bread?”

Don't say Sir Pigeon in his cobalt bonnet. Don't find among your notes jottings on duvets and blizzards and the page unwalked across black missives of girlhood must be sent off and do not claim the furnace of the universe is powered by human screams. When the dark turns dark or when the bullet lifts a scalp, it is enough to know the lover feels the slap that the world can hear the sharp shout which wakes the cat her claws one inch from the rabbit's bobbing scut.