One of the first love songs
Why are arms so naked
They are the best part of people
Nude, elongated, and fleshy
Coiled and muscular
Tan
And when clothed the arm has rigidity
It lends strength to orders
It pushes the hand to destiny
This too is good
But I like the other end of the arm
The underneath where it meets the body
This part of the arm can be coarse and slick
It can be soft and smooth
Either way it is the truth of the arm
One of two truths
If I could touch you there
It would be something to celebrate
the religious girl, the Mayflower
when you started / flying
the heat from your goddamn / soul
was so bad / the dog
sat up and licked himself
the air was incendiary
the people jumped from the ship
and the top of the bridge
just to have a look at you
when you started / flying
i thought i would go deaf
and hear no more loud noise
myself the only loud / noise
in my life
and i wished for a cable to snap
from the top of the bridge
to fall down and smite me /
for godssake //
it was a damn thing
like Lewis and Clark turning
back towards America
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
marzipan network collar bitemark
mother orthodontist
mesmerized
sleeps on her back
and looks so strawberry
with her lips open
you lick her
juicy fat tongue
you say I am sad
I am sorry
I want almonds
the tongue demands marzipan
the mouth demands bitemark
and you wish for milky syrup
voluptuous marzipan–
what would you give to eat it?
The blessed damozel leaned out from the gold bar of Heaven
Congratulations
You could be your own sadomasochistic daughter
The one who likes ropes
You won’t be tied to the chair though
Because the chair moves
You like bars
Tell me
If you see any kind of return signified
In the rosebush
That’s my own heart
I feed it with my own
I like bars too
I’m getting drunk in one tomorrow
Even though I won’t leave the house
I’ll watch you
Way up in the sky in your new panties
Shaking your ass for everyone
Of Modern Poetry
I keep thinking about the violin,
the one we left inside the bow.
How would it feel today,
waking up inside this exhibition,
this late transition,
passed from hand to hand so much?
There is a goblet
that doesn’t want to be smoothed over,
there is a fetish like the afterlife,
that isn’t there when we want it.
And what would you yield to,
if anything?
How is it
this far inside the exhibition?
Do you write for anything?
And we are all miles from something.
We went to see the tree-maker,
the carver, who was gone.
When we finally reached his house
he had taken out the music,
one of many signs.