(horse)
While I slept she had grown hooves, and her hair was longer than I remembered, and she was letting (this man) hit her, and she was getting excited about it. She kept saying, Beat me, Beat me… you know? I’d rather be beaten (she said). Beat me for an apple? Beat me for a little crisp red apple, for a sorb apple. I’ve got something to tell you. And the man looked up at the clock he was wielding, and the whip over his head, and (he must have been a student of Dali, for he paused for a length of time equal to–who could say?–was it a gunshot or a miracle?) a simple tear seemed to roll out of the corner of the painting. I didn’t hear anything.
I was then asked if I wanted to join them. I had to be honest–I said yes. And she continued… Beat me. Beat me a small number. Beat me a two or a three. Beat me a seven–if it hurts I’ll pull this chain. Beat me a ten, beat me a fifty, we really have a lot in common.
And the man and I were in perpetual dismay. We chased the post around and around, unsure of everything–except this: we didn’t want to hear any more about God.
Covenant Defining a Plane
the vivid encounter, but what is this
modesty the proof of? A slack?
Have you lost your hair?
Else urge,
erat, era–meaning,
there was a time
we were–once–
it was that little span
between the bubbles,
where the rims edged
the edge-skin of the bubbles,
eating the honeycomb.
Hours down there
even though
this compares
to a very small amount
in the wind on the window
in the wood keeling
nothing nothing,
there is no path
but to keep back
back
to a point,
to points
to points,
to a point
left to
the device.
Berlitz Primer
A light wind-litter-
air-disturbance. Kicked-apart boxes
draped on the backs of shameless
lovers who (try to) sleep there.
Picture it:
that we could sleep like them,
pull ourselves out from the street
Monday,
and work.
More hands than we might recall.
Money.
Hurrah to that.
It would be shameless.
Evocative.
Unpatriotic.
Furthermore,
the door swings out from its hinge
but you don’t get to say when.
Tag.
Or Tag.
All day.
And you’re following me through
the unfinished subdivision again,
looking for the tools.
Select what you need,
disassemble that,
then we’ll be ready
really ready
for our fate.
Ancient Hieroglyphics
–Dion Fortune, The Mystical Qabala
To Sri Lanka the girl’s eyelids
could not rotate fast enough
could not
because the fingers were rooted, they were invicted
therefore we see a mandala
therefore a tree cannot become a mandala
but what can a tree become?
(she had to hit rock-bottom, to cross logic–it was a threshold)
but what about those eyelids?
what they regarded when they were invicted
the fingers kept a firm grip on
the oar pretty much beyond taking
as the blooms were, by religion
as trying was, by belief–
painkiller, prayer-beads, traffic, language, helicopter
not like anyone else
Kitsch
Less inspiring; or more dual. The ordeal
calling up my disembowelment-dream
for the guests.
I tell them, I don’t want you to be company,
I want you to intervene!
Make my insomnia less vigorous.
(Tomorrow; tonight.)
I want you to pet me.
For forever the wide-screen panics me–
a real furor–
I need precious moments
for the afterlife. It comes quick–
laughing out of the box, the carton,
my little trolls,
but no real pet–
the boa taped to my wrist
wrapped like a demure hell
and stick, obedient to his dog.