Poor Aim Bad TimingPoor Aim, Bad TimingFuck youand your babblingbullshitI will kiss who I wishin spite(or because)of my problemsIt is one mouth for drinkingand two eyes for seeingand three seconds decideour four lips are kissingBecause you are rightwhen you saythat your veins were full of vodkaand your eyes werealivefor the first time since I\'d met youwith something other than regreteven if that wasangerI am only shouting nowbecause you started cryingbecause I wanted to hear my voiceabove the nonsenseand indulgence of a girlabandonedwhose breasts became medalsin her mindwhose cunt was cut and bleedsself pity, who believesit was only poor aimnot just bad timing
A Clutter of Wires Cut CleanlyA Clutter of Wires Cut CleanlyWaking.Morning.Naked, clean.Sun light puddledon the cool wooden floor.Scent of skin, sheets, coldand distanceOnly emptiness outsidethe color of skythe color of clouds.Air empty exceptthe rustling drapesand the radiotalking blindlyin a barren room.Her bare feetagainst thecool wooden floorcount out the daysin odd numbered stepstoward the door,echo the empty daysbetween where she wasand where she\'s going,measure distancebetween two lives.An incomplete weekof freedom betweenthe hospitaland the office.Life becomesunclutteredby lines of routineand the heavy questionswell up with unlooked forintensity.Having no wires to hold themto the earthall the big questionshang in the skyuneasily.There is nothing leftbut a bedand some booksthat she is nottaking with hera towelsome cereal andhalf a carton of milkin the fridge that washere when she came.
Spiders and LightningSpiders and LightningShemoved up the rockcunning as spiderslithe as lightningin reverseshe movedacross the graniteas though dancingonly the tipsof her toesagainst its skinshe walkedup the rockfeet finding frictionwhere there was nonebeforelisteningto stone throatedwhispers Icould not hear
Smiling Maid Coins a TrembleSmiling Maid Coins a TrembleSmiling maid coins a tremblesteps into the sunlighthandful of trust, heavy as goldheadful of dreams tailored as fineas any lady\'s silk kerchiefSlippers click along the stonesset like backs of breaching whalesin a crowded brown seaTired man once full of magicturns his hand from up to downempties nothing upon the tablebrown skin stretched across his palmlettering of bones beneath spells nothingHe touches on the table, rubbing roughlyagainst the grain, trying to findmeaning amidst the detailRotting ships rolling an idle seawooden boats waiting for windbodies, dancing and gruntingcut sailor shapes in the milky sphereof recognition and recreationheels hit hard up on the deckhips hit hard upon haunches belowPrimitives dancing emphaticserious faced and sobercircles around firesending up sparkslike stars into the darknessRusty stars rolling antique orbitsaround the sky, the ancient regularityof cogs in a clock, face painted with const
PsychopompPsychopompNew born and lie slicktoddling after cattlestill wet eyed andsoft boned freshfrom the cave whereyour mother bore youand lay still sleepingSneaky sonstrung between heavenand men tightlyas strings across alyre, your motion acareful resonance againstthe skywatching the roadsand the birds and the exchangeof money and mentrailing milky soulsto the water's edgeto wait for Karon's callcoin's cold weightupon their tongues
LucyLucy says she can tell just by looking at them. That why they are is apparent in what they bring to the counter, sliding it down the stretched circle rolling over and over and over until there is nothing more to drag across the blinking red eye of the scanner and it pauses until interrupted again. She says that what they buy tells her who they are. That what they bring across the counter is as good as a paragraph describing them. \"Back in the old days before the pharmacy had a register they had to bring their medicine to the counter too, and then readin\' \'em was even easier. Some of \'em \'ud stand here with their heads down never making eye contact, buying shit like acne meds and diarhea medication.\' She tells me all of this on her cigarette break. I don\'t smoke, I\'m only sixteen, but she gives me a cigarette anyway and I go with her because she likes to have someone to talk to, and Eusebio isn\'t much for conversation. She drags away on her Marlbourough Lights and tell
TumblersTumblersI.There was a temptationstepping out of the carand onto the concrete doorstepof calling youto wake youringingfrom whateverslippery slumberyou slid intoInstead here\'s a handfulbent lines and breathmarksto shape the silenceand echo in your headII.I wantto sit beside you andwrite, looping long lettersbeside yoursour handwritingslipping loosely from ourpens to intertwinelike lazy yarnin the clawsof crazy kittensand tell you aboutmy visionof you and Idusting dusky shadowsfrom one another\'s skincaught in a rangy tangleof limb and tonguerolling over and over andover againIIII often imagine you(drivingand dreamingweavingbetween columns of carswaiting patientlystuttering slowlyto a stop)sitting beside mespeaking in-consequential thoughtswhen I take your handcreating a breakin the idle flowof your ideasIV.There is a crystalbeating where my heart should beturning slowly in the handsof a womancatching the lightfrom her eyesbreakin
Peggy GuggenheimThe Peggy Guggenheim of Our GenerationThere are times whenI think you are thePeggy Guggenheimof our generationPassionatein your pursuitof creation and theof creatorsof the beautifuland symbolic languagesof their generationYour need for thecenter of subscriptionto lie down withyour ear close to the mouthof the oraclelistening toit speakand breathein it\'s silent moments