Serpentongue
You said
they would
eat me
up alive.
“They will chew you
up and spit you out.”
Verbatim. You smile, but
I can count the # of times
that you’ve lied. You have
no power here. Now I am
the grinner marching dust
roads in the winter. If only
you would listen. If only a
whittled song, water-sharp,
could reach you. If only we
could starve off the growth.
But truth has no bounty, as it
whistles skyward on a tattered
wing. It should be burrowing
into your skin. Meanwhile a
pen curls again and again, a
promise, a dream. Scratches
it out. Again and again. Time
is a curious thing, as it wades
back into a treacly grave until
star-hair is all we can see. I’ve
always thought that the cosmos
looked tangled. Someone needs
to give it all a good brush. O, but
what sacrifice would your god(s)
ask for in exchange to straighten
out the world with a whalebone?
+ I don’t believe the universe to
be so prude; self-organizing its
own self. It’s too horny for chaos.
You aren’t any different, wriggling
your way into a new one. I wonder
when my time is near: will I recall
your name? What letter will it start
from again? No reply, so I snap back
from my death-bed. Back to the war-
warmth of now. I tend to my torch. I
cut my hair. The month smells like a
sunset. Without a tie that binds, I
walk forward through fallen leaves.
Five thousand fireworks—crimson
curse words—bomb my feet. You
won’t submit. Your harpy wings
blast mouthfuls of musty air my
way. I alternate between psalms
and exorcisms. I surrender to my
sighs. I shake fist, bow down, bite
the earth. Just do what needs to be
done. The trick is learning to love
what’s in your mouth. The other is
tasting everything. Bitterness does
not frighten me. Refusal? How délice.
I’ve turned my palette into a power—
plant for disappointment and disgust.
Burn it down. Grease me up. To think,
I laugh, to think I haven’t shed my skins,
haven’t sprung a thousand eyes? As if
my name and bones were short, as if
my heart don’t shake the ground. Of
course, I say nothing to you. My eyes
watch yours as they roll. You can’t see
the tooth-scars all on me. Can’t sense I
have crawled out of bellies and won.
That I have learned the language
of bleeding, or touched my
soul and been stung. So
please, say think what
what you say think
about me. But I
know who’s
the eater,
and it’s
moi.
Perfect Time to Fall
The seed of transformation is hidden
in a thunderclap.
Cast your grains to the wind, let it
strip you of your riches.
Someday the Atlantic will vomit its
dead, and then, what then?
How will justice be fed to a million
fish-heads?
A child quakes in the night, a closet
door groans.
Soon the heart and the brain will
move as one.
There is nothing in evil
but more evil.
There is nothing in hate but
meek love.
Trunks split, shells break, a jaw
loses to cement.
The words you are looking for have
already given birth.
Their children are scattered like ashes
beneath the great houses.
No-one can raise a spade, code a bomb,
crack the crypt alone.
So take my hand. Call a friend. We are
dancing in the fields tonight.
We are summoning the rapture
by Christmas.
We are taking back the names of the dead.