Silver Car Where are you going Alejandro, where Because I too would like to write someone else's poem, gust to the margin The gash in the turf full of pale grass, pink flowers The bits of plastic the sea has placed just there And the skanky brash construction paused straggling along the ridgeline before it descends to this feeling about blonds that thankfully protects me from all other feelings Thus do I maintain my sleep, a cloister drawing me swiftly past the silver car parked lunar by the horses. With both wings lifted it is emitting a music of seriously sullen faces of children posing with guns for a student photographer who is growing increasingly nervous: his tears and his pain thumping are making her all wet he hopes: Do not smile, Alejandro, do not smirk until we've passed them. Where do people come from? from their habits. Keeping them so faithfully all along. The brown eyes filling again with a fierce private happiness behind the smoke both strong forearms on the scarred table, or their bare straw-colored skinny arms scalloped open over the balcony railing. How his intelligence rinsed me mixed with lust, even if thinly, tinny. Resisting as if hatred were an excavation I am always tunneling steadily toward my freedom You Are Not a Bird The officer dipping in and out of you I guess having a good time. Excited by a certain fast ripple in his reflection Become an object, come on!—each one has its lacy train.
The enormous breasts and white tiered skirt, and the relaxed gait of her boyfriend's scapulae under his thin shirt Their luggage rattling on brick, they are too many They write in notebooks. Their joy sounds like choking. Their faces so young and ruddy and lively and stupid. You are not a bird Each one is meaningless. They are a bird collectively, the bird of you wasting your time With such fair calm she surveys her work A bearded someone rides by holding a bottle shrieking, he seems to be enjoying his Sunday Two dogs flanking him, tongues out. Is it tiring to be weightless? Try helpless Ring the bell and stand aside, they will come to the other side of the wall and push the wafer through on a little tray and pause and ring the bell. Like G shoving all his anger inside piety as waiting for no one slowly closes My John Wayne Every time you crumple up a fantasy you feel better, so why not Make your best friend a saint, for freedom And because you want to fuck him The cashier with the burned hand and bad English smiling tightly New skin coming! New skin coming!"—a gleaming at the base of the fingers like pink spit, webbing The truth, freedom, Sure I say floating inside my John Wayne body, my ghost- buffer Sure it will Under the greenwood tree their passing hidden. Footsteps, laughter.
Is it a scar or mirror that peculiar brightness crossing a face involuntary. Discussing distances and I watch them, sealing and unsealing There is so much pressure on an ending not to. Just like me All Dread Is Trying To Be Kind I am in Damascus dreaming of Vikings The way they place their tongues to make their songs about big sore hands and ice and kinds of hot baths Hey, hey, and white towels all around The soft sea-sounds are humming down their cold fanned grooves The Geography Channel's helping George is making chicken and cleaning my coffeepot and calling me a liar when I say I already cleaned it All right, I am a liar. I want to swoon into a fit of possession by sled dogs like a premonition of an inappropriate lover on the horizon. Hard bliss of snow scouring at one mortal. The table is now yellow with bananas and apples George says he has discovered he is old. Whiskey or wine? Whiskey. My body very warm with skin abounds baking all the tiny bricks inside each wren, for pity Pharaoh Glimmer But you wanted to go into something you called a glimmer" But it was really more like shame But is it so different writing in pencil It is, because the sound You straddle the puffy blue mat with the white line drawings of a woman on her back.
Like a Pharaoh swimming There are the parts of your body that are something wrong Days you can call back into being These are called the future" The unmarried sisters are washing the cracked stone courtyard below Jingle of women, your own fletched No hidden in a city you walk through foreign without singing. Your armpits fern -rank with lust. Your hair with smoke Everywhere our breath bequeathed to curtains in the quiet toss of crisis spooned along night's back like honey, cold Hadn't you better lay back down stung with imagining the brides of Spartan soldiers shorn to look like conscripts waiting in thatched huts for dusk to fall floating and drubbed like branches in the dim foam of temporal bewilderment with soft hands and rough clothes I hang my doubt an opal lamp among fruits. Reality flows into all the spaces, how strangers test our pity. Someone thinks I am for sale and touches my arm more insistently. How much the limbs perceive, cooled and viva After kissing I sit feral, waiting for my played skin to become audible A crouched white traitor. Ace He is a sort of wall that I could bask on Art thou. Yeah, well.
Fetch me then Lurking from all attempts not to think about war end in my body white strong strange culprit in the mirror far iron tang of well water covering my deep heart at sea, a child lying on a carpet I am shorn in extremis, shivering to die I love the small field, the smell under my arms His backache, his three of shrapnel, small pink mole-nose of each nipple unsquashing when I take off my bra a joy similar to panic I felt watching him listen to music, and why these young voices should shelter wealthy efforts at mucho damage Untidy with breath, gaudy with pleasure for a little stitched while, or steadying to take a picture of a shattered doorframe. Splinters in silhouette. Always a train moving west. Etc. hair messy abject face. Ratscape. Breadspace when rage relinquishes my chest and fulcrum-calm of dear. Waking I strip off my warm shirt like a country settling doves.
He doesn't know what I mean. Well then I'm the short gray dog trotting alongside language An icy noon. A man enters the restaurant, unzips his leather jacket Can or can't go from each bed with this cup of asking to catch the rain inside his chest sprawled little country crawling forward on its ribs That's what we like you to think, we like it when you thank us. I want to be every cage disbelieving, blinkless. I inside the narrows of red brick, brick dust there, of men's chests Breaths pounded open, sun-tongs through hayloft air Workshirts in cigarette ads, full-page, glossy My unbound hair destroying everything and deeply. The list of errands helps somewhat to give me edges, but only briefly Then an absence gashed with trees You must take care of yourself You must rest and work in plain gray pencil above the unenchantable sea faithfully consuming all entrances to itself A face tipped up at the behest of rain. Quietly so it is the least real voices that most own me.