Saturday, July 31, 2010

68. Means of Reading

lilies of intention, the hill
of filthiness, in an issuance
that subdues fragrance

marbles in their brokenness
the blaze of shards
in the sunlight

lying in wetgrass
of a hot morning imaging
how drygrass would be

what life would be
in an undersnow world
tinged blue

the whelm
and what went before
the whelm

to falter, affixed to
a position as if furthering
were to wiggle in place

aggregated into sets
the creation of which aggrieved

deer bones and the difference
between antlers and the ways
of pointing away from one point

you hear in the ear
the orifice and how the
sound gets through

pelt in the form of throwing
or in the form of throwing
over your shoulders

tea as a darkening
of the word for

halved and hollowed
and what we have
kept in a hand

on the surface, nervously
incapable of depth
of seeing, of field

writing, the writhing of the
word, the withering on
the vine of sense

oceans of thought, the oasis,
when water runs and
houses run well

fervor or the tremor
that follows if
the meteor hits

green absence, running out
of it, teeth can hold
the meat or bread

hand of a bird shape, in the shape
of a bit of a bird,
maybe a beak

tooled and tongued, grooved
and held inside

invisible, unviable, inviolate,
a scent of water more than
a color, an unseen vision

face toward a face away
from the clock face
numbers as if time could move

ghosts and gods
what given and what gotten
nothing left from nothing

murmur as a form of humming,
industrious in intent,
intent instead of interest

the water of music,
a flowing towards for
a flowing through

inching into the void
what seems black but
whitens at the edges

handing over to the frail
and ailing the last
instance of cracking

longing and what lengthens
from it, and what opens
for it

wrapping wrath
in regrets and rapping
fingers on the table

the quiet pit in it
and the limbs and fingers
to move it out

reading repeated
and read then repeated
to read and to repeat

everything dirty
dirty filthy dirty
and dead


  1. Never really got to say it, Geof, but I love this and thank you for it. The poems I meant to send you as a reply but never did will actually appear in the forthcoming issue of Shampoo.

    Thank you again.

    captcha: felea

  2. Okay, John, I'll look for you in that issue of "Shampoo."

    No need for any response or thanks at all, but thanks anyway.