Harvester Hatching

love itself mentioned in passing
"the sol is autonomous,
and fusion makes fools of us all
when we dream of burning
fuel to plug the futures dust,
with rust we wait
for the worry children of
our laughing hearts
to charge fate
of orbiting lycanthropy too closely"
and by then he was too far gone
to extract the feel of teeth
from words whose satellites
only pointed down
with pontificating gravitons
to a scalpel.

the first cut was a stitch
and the weight of blood
bubbled up awake
to escape the dream
but only found itself asleep
against a tree orbiting the sun
locked in beneath
the pull of summer skin
and the explosion outward

collapse

lately my heart pumps three neutrinos,
switching flavors in each chamber,
but within my head beats
every dark increasing Why
like a twilight drum,
starting lips
throat humming
a rasp stretching
against the freezing air
and though my hands say go and come
my eyes spin and stick
to the terrible thought
that the joke of all this information
will wrap us in amnesia wind
and disrupt the onioned dream
of overcoming unreal cities
for love.

magnet poem

could honey rob men
of gorgeous bloody diamonds
so enormous
they can crush
a winter moon
to a summer whisper
in moments so black
these white shadows
will rust away
in forest symphony

neutron star

Burning cords of fungus-wood,
it spins from iron in my blood,
a royal cloud erupted from
below the mango tree where you stood and stretched
surviving ego as you fled across five time zones to the hills,
splitting sub-realities and living the fractal to slip either way.
When-I-remembered-your-eyes (Neptune and Saturn) shot out from
huge rainforest ferns with claws and teeth
and that frozen poem I was always writing died
in their jaws.

Those other words I burned could fuel
the Memory’s decay and gather all my things
in a wind coming upslope from the swift river,
returning east where my big texas heart is lost,
beginning again and missing the peregrines.

Time and Space have snapped--
been stretched and shunned too long
and the imminent collapse prophesized
that haunts your House like hungry bears
will waste itself on hadron dreams of excess--
cry neutralized in static grief
at the size of what was left.

And hopefully I will remain like you
some neutron star in coldest space
catching rays from Quasars spinning fast,
Quarks humming
dancing strong and weak to the end.

but if my Gravity exceeds
I will shock again a velvet touch whose lips
and tongue could blast the hardest walls to dust…
my falcon satellites fall in
and no light would escape,
the rite of passage is complete
and this Black heart Hole that should replace
the singing bird will call to all who near it
with Force!

Neutrinofieldswhoseenergywe’velostourselves
insomeforgottenmingleddanceevoked
theritualofbeggingspace
andheartsurgeonstofixusboth.

fragment

I have sliced the night horizon and seen
the bleeding dark slop off, the stars remained
and between the delicate hum of lights
there was nothing but a mirror of myself reflected

Bell

because a resonance persists

there is no rose
apart from it’s shape
that captivates
a heart as
_______narcissus.

the so low bird
nabs solos
with syntax—
confines to confound to an essence of words.

no heart
from that narcissus shape
sat as is the captive rose.
It’s air—
_______a part—

a syntax of signified,
encased in a cage of new art

with one god outside
or that echo of wind
_______“you solitary
_______fragment of space...”
the simurg is collared and tied to a tree,
wooden wings now pump iron with song
_______for blood.
and the place was a window
of cat gut strings singing
only in spite of the rust.

[music]

dances around pale shapes in
blank airless rooms where
people sit and Watch.

Repeating sonatas enfold the rooms.
Twisted and collapsing in time
with languid humming
until somebody moves like the Word moves in them

then
a guesture catches them all
halfway on the left-brained waltz
to the room you're in
with actual speech--a split
measure murmuring something in 4/8
bursts in through an ash door
& the floor vanishes
as the dust coils and tries
to lead you home (in vain)

This all because
A perfect A [444 Hz]
fighting itself in rhythm
has a tendency
to throw the Right aside to gasp
at the void in which it lives
before hitting the ground.

absorbed by molecules & out.

Arc

nothing more harmonic
than several empty rooms
hiding flipdark
chilled chromatic words--swords
to clear a hole in the maze;

set off fractals in your brain.

The Jade

Older than me it stood
within the House of yesterday,
a monument to the fade from lands unknown--
Itself a piece of the Idea-of-Jade,
drinking earth,
sucking air...
and sole blind witness
to crimes of youth.

I held its hand,
asked it nothing;
could never have dreamt
its asexual secrets--
and that I, too, was a potential
world of jigsawed Pieces
growing roots and shifting shapes...
then it fell off
and I was alone
fighting creations.

I was my own,
an icy island adrift--
the landlocked kingdom
waiting to spread to port,
waiting to root again.

I stole the Jade's Magnesium green
and switched it with Iron to make my Blood--
I had to try,
but the bright flare burnt a
hole in my shoe,
and while I stopped to stamp it out,
my memory uncoiled
and slunk into the earth below.

Fixed and broken I made maps of known realms;
a cartographer charting the stones beneath--
the imperial expatriate family,
obliterating
internally
the leaves that would grow on their own
in buildings built by ghosts…

but if I stay too long--too close,
and use my only root towards truth,
there'll be no escape from Walls or Floors,
and
stuck
inside
these
Halls
of
You.